


Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

by dragonnan



Category: Psych
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Has Issues, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic description of torture, Grief/Mourning, Muteness, No Slash, No Smut, Psychological Trauma, Serial Killers, Survival Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 36
Words: 104,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are all types of criminals. Some are super cool art thieves.  Some are big brothers who happen to be badass spies.  Some are personalities that live inside innocent dudes who are, on the whole, pretty decent people.  But then there are the bad ones.  The murderers.  The game masters.  The ones that enjoy cruelty and thrive on hurt.  Shawn Spencer has helped to put away all of them. </p><p>He never thought there would be a criminal he couldn't beat.</p><p>He never thought he'd be drawn into a crime that would stain him with its atrocity.</p><p>How can he be the good guy... when he's done something so bad?</p><p>...unforgivable...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Big Strong Teeth You Have

Air puffed around his lips- a fog of ice crystals that didn’t make sense with his memories of falling asleep in his warm bed.  This, of course, was observed at about the same time as the odd position of the shadow shrouded wall across from him- all blurry and whatnot.  It looked… wrong somehow.  Blinking eyes didn’t clear his vision any better, but clarity improved enough for three things to strike him all at once.  His ankles hurt, his shirt was missing, and he was upside down.  A forth, and equally uninspiring observation that his wrists were bound at his back was less important than the fact that this could end very badly.  

 

Shutting his eyes again at that moment was his best idea to date.  It didn’t remove the dizziness, but it did allow a few more seconds of convincing himself that this was the product of tequila and spicy burritos in large quantities.  Not that he’d intended to end the previous evening a stumbling drunk.  He honestly didn’t remember drinking all that heavily.  Two was his absolute limit after that week in Tijuana- his third trip and Gus’s first.  Waking up on the beach decked out in a novelty sombrero and no clothing save for a filthy poncho had put a quick end to his career as a drunken hobo.  Particularly after the panicked beratement Gus had delivered upon his stumbling return to the hotel.  He never did find his jeans.

 

A stifled twist of nausea was unnecessary in reminding him that the lightheaded thing was so unfun.  Coupled with the fact that it smelled rancid somewhere too close to where he was pulling off his fruit bat impersonation and his gag reflex was in overdrive.  Swallowing manfully, he choked back the acid- somehow managing to keep everything down… er… _up_.  

 

His little game of King of the Mountain against his gut went a goodly ways towards waking him up- renewing some of his memories to boot of that time previous to right now- be it yesterday or last week.  Station- case- new lead- reporters- hacienda- flirty waitress- turned down invitation… Why had he done that again?  Oh right, something to do with the creepy guy with the wedding ring staring him down from a few booths away.  Recently divorced or playing the jealous card- either way Shawn hadn’t had any interest in getting into the middle of that one.  So… so then he’d… what happened after the waitress again?  

 

His fingers curled weakly as he tried thinking beyond the highlights.  Maybe start from the beginning.  Dad’s method, but much as it irritated him the trick seemed to work most of the time.

 

Okay.  One a.m.  Had to get up in spite of the cushy warmth and comfort of his mattress because the Slurpee he’d downed before bed had come back to haunt him.  Bathroom break over, and he’d hit the covers hard without bothering to tuck beneath them.  Nine…ish.  This time his cell dragged him out of unconscious goodness.  It was Gus, letting him know the chief needed to talk to them both and to get his lazy ass out of bed already.  Skip past the shower and breakfast, he’d fast walked into the station just before ten.  Gus had already shown up ahead of him and practically hauled him towards Vick’s office.  Lassie and Juliet were standing near the desk along with a couple of suits Shawn had met three weeks previous when this whole thing had started.  Agents Hood and Falkner had been running the show practically from the beginning much to Lassiter’s aggravation.  Only his partner’s admonishment to behave as well as the Chief’s reminder that he not try to run afoul of the FBI _again_ managed to keep his more homicidal reactions from coming out to play. 

 

Ten missing persons over the last four months; all of them male between the ages of eighteen and thirty- five, all vanishing without a trace- no indications prior to their disappearing that anything was wrong.  They hadn’t appeared on the radar until the third body was found.  All of the bodies were practically skeletal- the effects of exposure, predation, and what looked like a cleaver destroying anything resembling evidence.  No arms, no legs, though the head was surprisingly still intact allowing for dental identification as well as a pattern of mutilation that linked the cases together; missing canines and occasionally incisors.  Even so, cause of death wasn’t completely clear.  Sure, CSI made it look easy with a red cotton fiber and a pair of tweezers saving the day, but Gil Grissom wasn’t on the payroll and real life meant that DNA was only as good as the guy leaving it behind.  Which he hadn’t.  Which meant finding him required calling on resources beyond the gun and badge crowd.  

 

Still, after nearly a month, even the pseudo-supernatural was appearing less than super and slightly ruffled around the edges and in dire need of as much sleep as could be found in a twelve hour workday.  

 

No leads, no new bodies, and their latest missing person had been gone for seventy-two hours.  The thing of it was, there was no conclusive proof that this individual had been taken by the same perp.  In fact, the only tie whatsoever was age and gender.  The only reason his vanishing act had come under scrutiny at all was the fact that the cops had put out an alert through the local boroughs.  On the negative side of things, the media had picked up on this about three days ago and immediately began hounding the detectives, the agents, and a certain psychic detective.  Ordered by the chief to keep their traps shut- any statements to be made intended to come from her lips alone- everyone had done their best to avoid the reporters.  

 

Of course, this had put a damper on the afternoon boardwalk snack run.  Every time Shawn tried to sneak out for either a smoothie, bag of roasted pecans, or other- he was accosted by a cassette tape wielding creature with a love for red lipstick and cheap shoes.  More tenacious than the rest of her breed, Sharon Sheffy of the Santa Barbara Independent was front and center whenever he chanced to venture beyond his door.  Dodging her was like trying to walk after going a few rounds in a commercial dryer.  Which was _also_ something Shawn didn’t like to discuss.

 

So when he was called to the Chief’s office at sometime before lunch on an urgent matter relating to the case, her first instructions had been to close the door and pull the blinds.

 

Another body had been found.  Unlike the other three, all the limbs were still intact.  Skin drawn mummy tight over his bones, they’d once more had to resort to dental records for a match.  Danny Shraub, the second man to be reported missing.  The last three bodies had all been pulled from the river or discovered on the shore.  Shraub, however, had been found buried in the sand near the foothills of Gaviota State Park off the 101.  Hot, dry conditions has preserved rather than rotted- and except for a small row of cuts across his abdomen and some ligature marks, his body was more or less undamaged… if one ignored the glaring fact that he was dead and slightly shriveled.  In this case, though, cause of death wasn’t such a mystery.  Apparently Shraub had a suffered from vascular disease.  Most likely the stress from his abduction had triggered a heart attack.  

 

Regardless of what had killed him, he’d clearly been taken by the same person as the other victims; the four missing teeth proof enough.  And the last thing they needed was for the media to know about it.  With this discovery, they now had renewed hope of locating the killer.  

 

Ignoring the rolled eyes and whispered comments from the side, Shawn had promised a consult with the unusually silent spirits while acquiring a copy of the latest file.  

 

He’d left with Gus, slipping out the side exit before parting company to make for his bike.  Thankfully only a few reporters had been on hand- most of them following the decoy of Gus and the Echo.  Not all of them had been quite so gullible however, and Shawn had been neatly cornered by his new nemesis with the crimson grin before he could swing his leg over the seat of his bike.

 

“Shawn- is this a new lead?  Have the police managed to uncover more evidence in the Tooth Fairy slayings?”  Mild Australian accent devoid of any adorable qualities when paired with that demanding tone- leave it to the former gossip columnist to stamp the murders with a moniker pulled from the Red Dragon, apparently the title name was too much of a dead giveaway to imagination gone stagnant.

 

“No comment.”  Initially painful to agree to such a stunted response, it had quickly become a welcome reply to the endless nose sticking into his business.  Not that it deterred the newspapers from plastering his face everywhere.  Much as it was normally a thrill to see his image in print, the novelty had lost its sparkle when the only calls were from people seeking a sound bite instead of a consultation.

 

He’d finally escaped and headed for his apartment rather than the office.  His neighbor’s two pit bulls had done an admirable job of keeping out pesky media folk, and with a well stocked fridge of grape soda and a box of Nutter Butters he’d stayed fed and hydrated for the next several hours.

 

Around seven-thirty his body demanded more than sweets.  Pulling from the files like a groundhog crawling out to see its shadow, he’d blearily slapped around for his keys before dragging to the door.  A thankfully empty parking lot had allowed him to drive with jackal stealth to the closest Mexican eatery- beef and beans and extra jalapeños calling to him.  

 

He’d eaten.  He’d flirted with the waitress… briefly.  He’d accepted the drink bought for him by the ‘lady at the bar’- turning to wink at the likely lady who’d smiled in return.  

 

And then…

 

And then…

 

Boy that was some good tequila.  

 

“Hello?”

 

He might be disoriented and possibly suffering from the worst hangover hallucination of the century, but he knew beyond any doubt that the voice he’d just heard was not his own.  First of all he never sounded that scared.  Ever.

 

“Hello, is someone there?  Please... please you have to get me out, please...”  Whimpering now, his begging overrode several attempts from Shawn to reply, the only chance coming when the voice reduced to unintelligible sounds of distress.

 

“Dude, hey, it’s alright.”  Yup, that was his own voice this time- totally in control, though a bit on the arid side of raspy.  A refreshing drink, however, would have to wait until he was no longer staring up at the floor.

 

“No it’s not!  It’s not!  You have to get me out!  Please, before he comes- comes back, hurry!!”

 

“Woah, woah, woah!”  Stopping Gus from humming along with Billy Jean would be easier than silencing the terrified pleas rising from whatever darkened corner this guy was hiding.  However, waiting it out was painful to the ears, and there was enough pain in other areas that Shawn wasn’t willing to tolerate any new torment.

 

“DUDE- SHUT UP!”  Wow, okay, now he was lightheaded- a mean trick considering all the blood pooled in his skull.  His face probably looked like a ripe strawberry by now.

 

At least ScreamyPants McWhine had dropped it down a few bars, though the excessive snuffling wasn’t any sort of assurance that the voice wouldn’t start shrieking if given half a moment.  

 

“What’s your name?”

 

The hitching breaths held for a few more seconds, the watery inhalations a bit longer.  Shawn was back to fiddling uselessly with his hands and trying to talk his gut out of a highly unpleasant bout of acid reflux.  He was unhappy to realize his vision was starting to skitter a bit, as well as darken at the edges.  He might have to concede a point to his father on this one.  Apparently hanging upside down really was bad for his health.

 

By this point the congested sounds were nearly gone- finally bringing enough control for the other young man to provide a response.

 

“Seth… Seth Branders.”

 

Shawn closed his eyes- not completely surprised, but he’d been hoping.  “Crap.”  Too soft for the kid to hear, he discovered that his voice was now shaking as well.  

 

“What… what’s your name?”

 

This wasn’t good.  This wasn’t good at all.  In fact, this was about the worst scenario he could have pictured. 

 

“Hello?”

 

Because Seth Branders… had been the last person to disappear.

 


	2. A Cold Wretched Taste

“I’m not kidding Shawn!  Vick is going to reupholster her chair with your ass if you try to slide out of this one!”  Snapping the phone shut once more, Gus put the car in gear as he prepared to head _away_ from work to dig up his friend from whatever bed he was currently sleeping in.  Okay, maybe that was unfair.  As far as he knew, Shawn had been slightly less than enthusiastic about female one night roommates since he and Abby had parted company; suddenly going from chain-dater to celibate.  Given the circumstances of their break up, it was no wonder Shawn wasn’t quite the same guy afterwards.  Gus had been hoping it meant a small step towards greater maturity but with his friend ignoring the last three calls the chances of that were bordering on anorexic.  Now, with the Chief demanding another powwow it was on Gus to provide the witch doctor.  

 

“Idiot.” 

 

He was thoroughly peeved.  Ogletree had been dropping little comments again lately, as well as threatening to take ‘measures’ if Gus didn’t idle back on the Psych moonlighting.  However, as Gus was still finishing his sales calls on time as well as maintaining excellent relations with his clients the likelihood of being fired was low.  Not that FrankJim didn’t still deeply enjoy his little power plays, jerk.

 

Shawn’s apartment was just ahead.  Gus wouldn’t be at all surprised to discover the guy passed out on his couch after staying up all night reading over the file Vick had given him.  Not something Gus at all envied him however- not after the glimpses of the morgue photos he’d seen.  Just when he’d thought he’s met the sickest puppy on the block too.  Well with any luck, this one wouldn’t be coercing a conversation by threat of mom explosion.  Or, for that matter, roping his psychic toy into a twisted version of Let's Make a Deal.  Actually, the only person looking for a one on one these days was Shawn’s newest stalker with a mini mic and ball point pen.  Sheffy was really pushing her first amendment rights.

 

He wondered if it was too much to expect that Shawn had solved the case overnight.  Probably not given that the cops hadn’t yet discovered if their killer was a him, her, or them.

 

Given that Shawn's chosen living space was a no longer functioning place of business, it was no trouble finding a good parking spot directly in front of the old Fluff and Fold.  Flipping through his collection of keys as he reached the door, Gus started knocking even as he was slipping his copy of the key into the lock.  If Shawn wasn’t answering his calls he probably wouldn’t answer his door either.  At least Gus had the courtesy to announce his presence before barging in.

 

“Shawn!  Dude, it’s after noon!”  He spoke as he entered, knowing the second he stepped foot in the combined living room, bedroom, and closet, that Shawn wasn't there.  Even unconscious his friend made the space around him vibrate.  Right now, there was nothing in the air but dust and the smell of fruit going bad.  Empty bed just as he’d thought- pillow on the floor and bedding on its way.  

 

Turning back to the rest of the apartment, Gus quickly located the sour-sweet odor.  Shawn had been munching pineapple slices while going over the files that were strewn all across his desk, and the leftover snack wasn’t faring well in the morning heat.  Either Shawn needed to pay his bills or invest in a few fans because it was literally sweltering after just a few minutes.  However, when Gus toyed with the settings on the thermometer, a cool breeze immediately kicked on.  Shawn must have turned it off last night- it had been pretty cool outside.  But that meant he hadn’t switched it on today…  Had he even come home last night?  The tousled bed was no clue as his blankets always looked like that.  Okay, so maybe he couldn’t sleep so he went out instead.  To be honest, Gus hadn’t noticed if Shawn’s bike was parked out front.  However, now that he looked around with more than just a casual glance he didn’t see either Shawn’s jacket or helmet.  Well that answered at least a fragment of his questions.  No sign of his cell either- at least the boy was proving he could be slightly tamed.  Gus had certainly berated him enough for leaving the thing behind when he went out.

 

That still didn’t explain why Shawn wasn’t answering Gus’s calls.  

 

Following textbook cliché to the letter, Gus’s cell began vibrating right after the thought.  Not Shawn though, as he confirmed after a glance at the screen.  Who it was, however, brought a deep groan as he flipped open the phone.  

 

“Yes sir?”  

 

_“Guster, what are you doing?  We have a meeting with a representative from BioTech in twenty minutes!  Where did you leave that PowerPoint?”_

 

The meeting was in _thirty_ minutes unless it had been moved up for whatever reason, and Gus had already told Ogletree that Simms in R and D was editing the presentation.  Not that this was about the meeting anyhow.

 

“I’m sorry, I told Jenna I was taking my lunch…”

 

_“Well why the hell didn’t you just bring something from home?  You’ve known about this for three days.”_

 

Hoping his frustration wouldn’t show across the phone lines, Gus dug out his keys as he headed back towards the door once again.

 

“I’m on my way back now, I’ll be there in five minutes.”  Arguing was useless.  At this point, Ogletree was not really as interested in getting him fired as he was hell bent on making his employment torture.  It didn’t help that the man was going through a divorce.  Gus could only hope that once the paperwork was finalized, his boss would go back to his standard level of annoying.  

 

When the line cut abruptly on the other end he sighed and returned his phone to his pocket before slipping back outside and locking the door behind him.  He’d have to track down his friend later.  Right now he needed to focus on his breathing.  In and out, in and out, don’t punch your supervisor, in and out.  

 

Yeah, he could do this, sure.

 

 

 

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

Pain throbbed steadily down his legs.  He’d hoped the distraction of talking to Seth would have actually… distracted him.  And it did a bit, up until Seth drifted off into silence.  Even yelling had brought no response, so either he’d passed out or… No, he’d just passed out, that was all.  Actually, Shawn was battling to stay conscious himself.  Not that staying awake was such a great thing, but he didn’t want to be sleeping whenever their mystery kidnapper appeared.  Not that he’d know him on sight.  Seth had no idea what the guy looked like beyond a general body shape.  Apparently Mr. Snatch and Grab had a fondness for the Zorro look, though without the cape.  Hopefully without the sword too.  What was the deal with masked killers these days anyhow?  Was there some sort of underground club or something?  


 

Hours ago he’d given up trying to move his feet.  He was numb almost to his knees, the sensation bleeding into a sharp ache down through his hips and lower back.  Motion of any kind triggered circulation where bindings had constricted blood flow.  Every time he shifted, heat flicked through whichever limb he twitched, followed by maddening sparks and tingles.  He’d stiffen then, trying to remain as still as possible as the sensation built upon itself until he wanted to scream.  Eventually though, it would begin dying away once more, leaving an odd coldness it its wake.  

 

It was hard to breathe.  Though considering the slightly rancid taste to the air this could be a good thing.  If it wasn’t so cold it would probably smell like a slaughterhouse.  

 

His skull throbbed too, and though they suggested hanging one’s head between one’s knees to prevent fainting- too much of the same seemed to have the opposite effect.  And also made him nauseous.  Actually, if he really wanted a whine-fest he shouldn’t forget the crappy surroundings.  Dark walls, dim light, temperature about three degrees up from arctic… And he could swear he’d heard scampering feet earlier that hinted at scaly tailed buck toothed varminty friends.  He hoped they weren’t hungry.  

 

He rotated his hands, risking the circulation side effect to keep sensation.  His stomach gurgled and he wondered if it was a warning that it was about to empty itself or a reminder that it wasn’t full enough.  He didn’t want to ponder how one could be hungry and about to puke all at the same time.  

 

_“Shawn?”_

 

He tried to twist around, though the action was just as useless as before.  “Seth?  You okay buddy?”  Why he thought his voice would echo he didn’t know.  Instead, it stopped dead where it struck the wall.  He was convinced he actually heard the splat.

 

“I’m okay.”  By the relief in his voice Seth had obviously been close to panic- probably wondering if his brand new best friend had bit it while he was napping.  Probably an understandable concern what with the creepy dungeon atmosphere and Chuck Norris Missing in Action vibe.  

 

 

“How’s your head?”  

 

Seth was quiet again, though Shawn could hear him breathing- probably panting given how far the sound carried.  Finally he answered.

 

“Still hurts.  My stomach’s a little better though.  Are you…?”  Whatever he’d meant to say was sliced off with the scrape squeal of a metal hinge.

 

“No… oh no oh no…”

 

“Seth?  Seth just calm down buddy…” 

 

Still panicking softly the other man didn’t respond to Shawn’s words, repeating his frantic mantra as the casual clops of footsteps could be heard descending a staircase somewhere in the darkness.

 

“No-no-no-no-please… Oh God, oh God…”

 

“SETH!”

 

Practically sobbing now, Seth’s desperation only grew louder, coupled with the intermittent clank of his restraints as he obviously fought to free himself.  He was going to pop a joint if he didn’t cut that out!

 

“Dude- breathe man!”  

 

“You don’t- you don’t- you don’t know what he’s… God…  He-he’s… please don’t- not any more, please!”

 

Shawn twisted every direction possible but there was no seeing past the wall.  And the footsteps had reached their level now.  Seconds later the rotten odor that had been resting in the air suddenly boiled to life- forcing a hard, dry retch before Shawn could clamp his lips together.  

 

He could actually feel the person enter the room- like a moist heat- before it brushed past him- a dark glimpse of brown spattered against white.  

 

Seconds later Seth’s voice strangled into a sob.

 

“Don’t touch him you son of a bitch!  Leave him alone!”  

 

Another sound, something rustling, and Seth screamed.

 

“Seth!”

 

The scream rose to a piercing shriek- and stopped.  A second after that Shawn heard a thick, wet splatter that made his throat flood with bitter tasting fluid.    

 

“Seth?”

 

There was a short patter of liquid.

 

“…Seth?”

 

A burst of deep, warm smell, like raw hamburger mixed with waste ripped his control away violently, and he wrestled his body to face the wall just as his stomach bucked and he retched in helpless waves.

 

Pounding steps and then, through teary eyes, he saw bare legs and feet.  And then he convulsed again just as he felt his legs heaved from the hook.  Seconds later his body was dropped to the floor.

 

The sudden vacating blood from his skull was too much- and before his vision could clear, it vanished completely as he slumped to the floor.


	3. In Darkness Deeply

“ _Prokydatysia vysche_!”

 

Freezing wet slapped hard and Shawn lurched awake with a gasp - one hand clawing out to the side where it met a rough wall. The smell of ripe blood flooded his nose and he gagged through tight lips until the second round of dry heaves settled back to a manageable level.

 

“Shvydko! _Shv_ _y_ _dko, shv_ _y_ _dko_!”

 

Unable to see meant unable to dodge so he wasn’t prepared to flinch when a boot swung viciously into his gut.

 

“Nuugh!” Dry heaves resumed immediately, his choked sputters and coughs pouring a rancid taste into the back of his throat. 

 

“Shvydko!”

 

“I don- _huuh_...don't know what you're saying!” Shawn finally gasped, grunting as fingers grabbed his hair and yanked. Encouraged by the request to sit up, he scrambled to his knees to minimize the damage to his scalp.

 

“Yzha!” 

 

Something dry and crumbly was shoved into his face. He winced at all the muscle pulls involved with jerking back. He sniffed. Bread.

 

“Yzha! Yzha!” A slap to the back of the head suggested he wasn't following directions fast enough. Obviously yzha meant “eat”. Or possibly, “I've contacted the police and they'll be here shortly to rescue you”, but that second one might be more of a stretch. Actually it was a stretch if Tiny here thought this bread was going anywhere but on the floor.

 

Seconds later it became clear that Tiny was the psychic one in the group as the bread was shoved into his mouth.

 

“UMPH!” Twisting didn't work as the other hand dug into his jaw, pinching hard the more he fought. Stale and hard, he nearly choked on the crust wedged partway down his throat. A lurch combined with some desperate jaw work got the bread between his teeth. Chewing as quickly as possibly, he broke it down enough to swallow – gasping as he was finally released. 

 

“Voda.”

 

The next thing to shove against his mouth was the lip of a bottle. Rather than battle this time, not eager to drown, he allowed the tipped container to spill water into his mouth and spatter down his chest. Only a few gulps and it was pulled away. The word spoken just before the liquid had been pressed on him was easier to decipher – sounding closer to the English version than the rest of what had been shouted.

 

He had a few seconds of breathing, sickened by the sweetish, metallic blood smell, and then more one word instructions.

 

“Yzha. Yzha hleeb.”

 

Another hunk of bread was forced into his mouth, his captor clearly not trusting him to feed himself as one hand clamped on the hinge of his jaw while the other crammed the hard chunk past his lips. He choked again but the palm over his mouth wouldn't allow him to spit the bread. It was almost impossible to chew with the hands on his face, but the alternative was suffocating on carbs so he worked it down, feeling it scrape the length of his throat. 

 

“Dobre.” The man chuckled as he patted Shawn's head. Unwelcome when the touch had been rough, it was no less so when it was benign. Shawn pulled away, expecting to be slapped or punched, but there was only another laugh. 

 

When the man moved towards the center of the room, Shawn scuttled into the nearest corner. Funny how quickly he found that sitting in filth and cobwebs didn't concern him. He barely moved when something with multiple legs tickled across foot. He watched the man wander into a deeper shadow. He could kind of see a table where his accent-heavy friend was headed. That just couldn't bode well...

 

_He's not watching..._

 

God, hanging upside-down had obviously effected his common sense! Tiny was now fiddling with something that clanked. Curiosity had plummeted in the last several hours so Shawn made no attempt to see what new object was being brought into play. Instead, he braced his palms against the wall behind him and silently began rising to his feet.

 

His eyes squinted as he stood. There was pain in his abdomen, pain in his back, pain in his ankles... A single step confirmed that his joints wouldn't be very useful to him. It wasn't just his ankles, but his knees and hips as well – all that time hanging had wrenched at the sockets. He was so stiff he couldn't bend his ankles, but he managed to begin shuffling – always watching the shape on the other side of the room. 

 

His friend was very focused on whatever project he had going on. Probably creating a ransom note from letters cut out of magazines and newspapers. Well so long as he stayed mesmerized Shawn could care less what he was up to. 

 

His right foot slid across grit and stone, the movement restricted by stiff pain and the manacles still clamped around his ankles. He froze as metal clinked on stone, but there was nothing that indicated his large friend knew what he was doing. It took an amazing amount of willpower to move his foot forward again. Nothing quite like numbing terror to make it feel as though a wild donkey had just kicked him in the chest. 

 

His eyes stayed on the other man while he created another inch of space between them. Every shuffle away made his throat tighten even more. He wanted to run but all he could manage was another step. And then another. The stairs were only a few feet away now. Shawn's heel rolled over something on the floor and he nearly stumbled – his manacles clinking as he lost traction for several seconds. Falling against the wall, he looked first towards his captor. The giant had stepped deeper into the shadows and was now kneeling – still seeming to be oblivious to the stealthy escape. With impending doom avoided again, Shawn glanced down at what had tripped him up. It was long and rounded with a large knob on one end. A bone. There was no need for a degree in forensics to identify it as human.

 

He pulled his lips down and swallowed before stepping over the bleached white length. Now, instead of watching Tiny, he kept his eyes fixed on his path. There were more bones scattered nearby. Most appeared to be leg bones, though some shorter ones suggested they'd come from arms. Then he spotted what was clearly a skeletonized foot still strung with tendons. He had to swallow several more times as he moved past the remains.

 

Shawn jerked at the sudden clatter behind him – pivoting his head and squinting while he simultaneously began to pick up his speed. Tiny still wasn't looking his way but he'd stood once more. Something long hung from his right hand. It looked like a... cleaver.

 

His heels bumped the bottom stair and he fell backward against the concrete before he managed to spin around and scramble upwards – using hands and feet to tear his way to the top – no longer trying to be silent. His manacles continued to interfere as he slipped on the smoothed edges, rapping knees and shins and only keeping himself from a brutal fall out of desperation. His gasps had a voice as he reached the door and slammed into it – the terrified sobs for breath shaking out in a thin scream as he wrenched at the knob... and found it locked.

~-~-~ 

 

 

Henry pulled at the sleeve of his jacket. The one concession he'd made but only with the promise that he'd never be forced into a fabric noose. Verbal contract in a hallway during a moment of desperation hadn't held up under the dress code waved under his nose once the ink had dried. Still, it helped that he had some history with the woman in charge. It also helped that he provided the balancing element that the station had lost when his son had been unleashed on them a little over four years ago. The jacket he could tolerate. It was his current project that had been his reasons for turning down the job offer the first time around.

 

Tapping out his report on the PC shouldn't have been as painful as it was. As a cop, years ago, he'd only had a typewriter and a bottle of whiteout. Even when they'd upgraded to word processors in the early eighties they still hadn't had even a fraction of the capability of the machine now sitting on his desk. Not that he was an old fuddy duddy that couldn't comprehend email. But for whatever reason, he couldn't... get this damn... file... to print!

 

His cell rang while he was still stabbing his keyboard. Dragging it from his pocket, he figured it was probably Shawn – who'd yet to check in today in spite of his promise to do so. Not really a surprise. 

 

Instead, glancing at the screen, he saw it that was Gus. Though, granted, where one was the other was usually nearby – the two were like peanuts in the same shell.

 

“Gus, what can I do for you?” Henry gave an inner cheer when the report finally went to print. Apparently it helped to have the correct printer installed.

 

“ _Hey, Mr. Spencer, is Shawn there?”_

 

Looking over his shoulder just in case his misfit muppet of a son was trying to startle him by hovering silently behind his chair, not a first time offense, Henry confirmed he was still relatively alone in his corner of the bullpen. For not the first time that day, he felt a twist in his chest at the radio silence. It was one thing to give Shawn a long lead and trust him to know how far he could stray. It was another thing completely to take off the collar, kick him out the door, and hope he remembered the way back. 

 

“No, I haven't seen him yet today.” He said with another look around. 

 

The last time Shawn had gone missing, he'd turned up again with a bullet hole in his shoulder. Ever since then, he'd shown a noticeable distaste for wandering off on his own. His reluctance had become even more pronounced after his run in with Yin. Actually, everyone involved in that event was still in various stages of recovery. The twist in his chest gave another turn. 

 

“Gus, when was the last time you saw him?”

 

 

 

~-~-~ 

 

 

“No! No, God! HELP! SOMEONE HELP!” Shawn beat both fists on the wood and slammed his shoulder into it again and again – feeling the pain burst through his collar bone in a scorching snap with the forth impact.

 

His jaw dropped wide even though his scream had been strangled into a choked escape of air. Even the stomping tread of the dungeon master couldn't motivate him to think beyond the phantom claws dragging through the span of flesh between his shoulder and neck.

 

Deep chuckling behind him barely made it past the sound of rushing water that filled his ears. The words spoken between the laughter nothing he could interpret even if he hadn't been in that act of tear suppression.

 

“Pogano, Pogano,Pogano...” Laughing again as he reached the top of the stairs, there was no hurry in his approach as Tiny reached forward with one wookie sized hand.

 

Shawn cringed but could do little more with the only exits closed to him by either a locked door or Mighty Joe Young. The big man's fingers closed on his left wrist – Shawn's other arm drawn against his chest to minimize motion in his shoulder. Still smiling, Tiny began to haul his captive back down the stairs; his steps unimpeded by the struggles to escape his hold.

 

The decent back into the smelly pit was thick with despair. The smell rose the deeper they went – the earthy scent of the underground cavern mostly overtaken by the stench of rot. Humor was a stress reliever Shawn hadn't been able to access for weeks – less so when he didn't have his usual partner to play straight man to his prat falls. He missed Gus suddenly and with a burn of pain that came from his core. 

 

Feet stumbled and skidded on the stairs and he'd have gone down without the grip that remained locked on his wrist – a painful support that ran the risk of crushing more bones if he continued to fight.

 

He was released once they reached the bottom – though the idea of bolting back up the stairs was quashed when Tiny didn't move away. Instead, the man leaned in and raised his brows.

 

“Tualet?”

 

Shawn shook his head. “I- I don't understand...”

 

“Tualet, tualet... um...” Clucking his tongue, Tiny mimed unzipping his pants and held both hands close to his groin. “Tualet, tak? Vy mene rozumijete?”

 

Shawn started to shake his head again when it clicked. “Are you asking if I need the toilet?”

 

Tiny grinned. “Tak! Dobre!”

 

The small communication seemed enough for the large man as he once more grasped his captive by the arm and pulled him to an alcove set in a far wall. Reaching up with his other hand, he pulled a chain and nearly blinded Shawn with the single, forty watt bulb. Squinting at the brightness he'd gone without for so long, Shawn took in the stained toilet and equally stained sink. As much as he didn't want to relive himself with an audience, there was an equivalent amount of distress that this might be one of very few opportunities to empty his bladder. 

 

Keeping his back to the other figure, he winced as he bent to work his zipper down with one hand. The searing throb in his collarbone hadn't eased one bit and every motion hurt.

 

Eyes sweeping the three walls in sight while he relieved himself, he only needed seconds to confirm what he'd seen on entering. No mirror, not even a toothbrush. A roll of toilet paper was the only item not bolted down. If he thought he could bludgeon the man with Charmin he'd have been all over that.

 

Finishing his task with a resurgence of heaviness in his chest, Shawn flinched as a hand entered his vision. But Tiny was only turning the water on in the sink – gesturing rather than speaking to indicate that he wanted his guest to wash up.

 

Zipping and buttoning, Shawn held his one hand under the trickle and flicked his fingers a few times before stepping back to shake off the droplets. Tiny turned off the water, yanked off the light, and once more took Shawn by the wrist to lead him back into the main room.

 

The closer they came to the far wall the more Shawn began to resist again. After the burst of brightness from the bulb, his eyes were back to struggling with the murk. However, just by the direction, he knew where he was being led. 

 

Stopping abruptly, Tiny whirled and smacked Shawn in the side of the head. “ _STEEH!”_

 

What would have been a love pat for a Clydesdale nearly pitched him to the floor. The sharp jerk of his body yanked the bones in his shoulder and caught the gasp in his chest as he fought through the resurgence of pain. He was dragged the rest of the distance in a hunched hobble. 

 

Having his hands pulled behind his back was too much for his collarbone and he couldn't help the wail that burst free nor the choked sounds that followed. The sound of tape ripping led to the feel of stickiness wrapping around his wrists in half a dozen loops – a sensation he wished he didn't find so familiar. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and ran into his eyes the further he was manhandled. Then his large friend laid his hand on the broken section of collarbone and Shawn couldn't stop the strangled scream.

 

Pressure, steady and continuous, forced him down to his knees – the ability to resist it taken by the same force that ripped the air from his lungs. He wobbled on his knees for a moment, bending at the waist and sucking in a gasp as his lungs lurched. And then the fingers pinched tighter and he fell on his side with a sob. “Please-please...”

 

He thought it was mercy in response to his begging as the man backed off. But his captor wasn't retreating. Instead, he moved to the other end of Shawn's body. Leaning down, he grabbed the length of chain connecting the manacles and, with a grunt, stood and hefted upward.

 

An explosive burst of fire tore through Shawn's right arm and into his chest. Sharp gasps and chewed off cries were the most he could produce – all of the screaming taking place in his head. He barely felt his hands scraping up the wall. There was a jolt as the chain was dropped over the hook again and a rattle that he'd heard before but still couldn't identify. He kept his body clenched tight while Tiny leaned close – seeming to stare at his feet. He couldn't relax because it moved the bones in his shoulder. Moving the bones in his shoulder, he'd recently discovered, was bad. 

 

Shawn squinted upwards as the men flicked his fingers against something – it sounded plastic. “Ayie zanum...”

 

Another tap and then the large hands reached forward again. Shawn tried to brace himself as both of his ankles were grasped but even the rapid preparation couldn't stop the pain from once more lurching into unbearable as he was lifted off of the hook and dropped to the floor. 

 

He didn't black out but the burst of colored shapes made him think, of all things, of the planetarium and his very short stint as Aurora Borialis. He actually felt some sympathy for what his audience had been put through with the visual assault he'd unleashed. But then, it had been for a good cause. And besides, they'd known the risks when they'd signed up for the experience...

 

There was scraping to his right as Tiny moved through the room. Shawn licked his lips and tried to keep track of where the other man was heading. The glow from the corner wasn't enough for details, but he could still, more or less, see the shape of the figure as it hunched in front of the glow for a moment. 

 

Then Tiny stood and the glow appeared to follow him – hovering about a foot in front of his body. Shawn was willing to accept that he was still working through some leftover visual hallucinations but the glow didn't change – didn't shift into other colors or shapes, though it did weave a little comet trail as the man started heading his way once more. 

 

In moments, Tiny was at his side again. The blunt tip of his bare foot shoved against Shawn's shoulder and forced him to his back. 

 

“D-d-dude, look, I don't know who you are – I haven't even seen your face, really, at all. I can see you're a very... a very private guy and I respect that, I do...” the outpouring of babble was the first extended speech he'd managed since talking to Seth. Something bad... something _worse_ was about to happen, he just felt it. “Look, just let me go and you can go back to your life... you can get yourself a Netflix account, have a Drew Barrymore marathon and...”

 

Tiny leaned forward and cut off his prattling. “Robyty ni rukhatysia.” 

 

“What?”

 

The glow surged forward – the identity of what it was coming seconds before it made contact – and Shawn screamed as the freezing hot iron seared into his flesh.

 


	4. Deciphering the Demon

Repeated calls yielded no more results for Henry than they had for Gus. Straight to voicemail each time. Shawn had been AWOL for twenty six hours. The last person to speak to him had been Gus, at around seven thirty the previous evening. A walk through his apartment had shown the place unchanged from when Gus had stopped by earlier that day.

 

After a check at the Psych office and a handful of known haunts, Shawn had officially been declared a missing person.

 

Regardless of the fact that he actually carried a measure of rank at the station now – an unspecified title hovering somewhere between rookie and detective – Henry hadn't been able to get a BOLO issued for his son without some strong arming. Whatever the officers thought of Shawn, however used to his tactics they thought they were, the fact that they'd been so reticent in believing something was wrong proved to Henry that they didn't know his son at all.

 

And maybe Henry wouldn't have been so take charge on the issue had he been in this place a year ago. But two serial killer stalkers and a kidnapping slash near death experience had altered his perceptions. The cop instincts that had never left him felt sharper, it was true; but it was the marrow deep terror of a father, knowing his child was in danger, that drove him to manhandle the door to the Chief's office without permission granted.

 

Vick had treated him as a fellow officer from his first day back in the station as one of the rank and file. Her command was something he never had to question. This was her station and he would follow the rules as she laid them down.

 

He wore his jacket with unspoken complaint – prepared reports and went through the proper channels regarding chain of command when turning them in. He didn't invite Karen over for coffee any longer. He didn't even address her as Karen. It was Chief Vick – no “ma'am” thank you very much, and he was Mr. Spencer; “Henry” only on the occasions when both he and his son occupied the same space.

 

The history of friendship between them had been stowed away in order to create the required professionalism. She was his supervisor, he the subordinate, and he had treated it as such.

 

But now, with Shawn in the wind and the jagged shards of frozen blood cutting through the deeper parts of his flesh, it was that friendship that Henry called upon in desperation. It was a one time deal, he knew. He couldn't expect to pull that card to bully his agenda ever again.

 

However, if Shawn was found safe and whole, he wouldn't need to.

 

At two forty-five in the morning, while much of Santa Barbara was still asleep, the search began.

 

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

The pain in his shoulder had taken on a whole other world of torment. He shoved against the earth with his right leg and curled on his side. His breathing hitched and jerked and there was no stopping the wet that squeezed out and tracked down through the whisper of beard on his cheeks. Panic roared back as the alpha emotion, raw and wild as trapped animal, when the shape of his captor knelt beside him and grasped the waist of his jeans.

 

“No- NO!” Dread was hot in his gut as he tried to twist from the hands – tried to kick with his bound feet. One hand left his waist and pressed down on his broken shoulder and his scream lost words as he froze with pain. Immobilized and sickened, he felt his throat jump as he pleaded against this new threat. He gasped and shook his head as the man reached behind himself towards the table, a dim shape in darkness, and slid an object that scraped along the coarse wood.

 

He couldn't identify it until the sharp edge nicked his side before slicing into denim. His jeans were being cut from his body.

 

“No, no – don't, don't, don't...” He sucked his lips between his teeth as the large hand rested in warning against the split bones in his shoulder. No need for speech he couldn't understand when the message was so clear. Don't move, don't speak, or you will be hurt.

 

Apparently the shivery whine was okay, though, as the hand left his upper body to resume tearing at the heavy material further south. Seth hadn't given much by the way of clues before he'd gone very silent. He'd only been terrified of the man that had been keeping him in this freezing dungeon. It was a fear Shawn understood. Only a handful of ties had he been this afraid. Only once had he been so terrified that he'd lost himself to his horror. Yin.

 

He'd never seen Yin's face.

 

Old fear collided with new as five seconds of implication tore away his ability to see beyond the present. He couldn't remember more than that flash of the man's form at the dock. He'd been large – heavily built but not fat. He couldn't remember his voice. Did they have the same voice?

 

A loud rip tore off his right pant leg. The man immediately started on his left. Shawn tried to keep still but couldn't help drawing up his knees as he was exposed, in spite of the dark. This time the hand didn't threaten. It struck. If he screamed when the fist slammed into his shoulder he wasn't aware of it. The black grew blacker and sounds tunneled out into echoes. He was suspended in the dank netherworld no longer than a minute or so, but his recall of time was more than spotty.

 

When his mind began to click again, he no longer felt the large form curved over his body. The other sensation, carrying both shame and a fresh surge of fear, was the draft of air across flesh no longer covered by his jeans or even his boxers. He didn't want to think about the why behind this action.

 

But too late for him to think about anything else, the shape was returning. Shawn dug his heels into the floor and shoved away from the advancing form – his motion stopped abruptly by the wall at his back. He thought he might be struck again and braced for it.

 

The jet of cold water that hit him instead was nothing he could have prepared for. The gulp of air he'd scavenged was shuddered away as the torrent struck his chest and locked the next breath in his lungs. He tried to worm away from the blast but the pounding water stayed with him, moving up and down his body from scalp to heels.

 

Giving up on escape when his shoulder twisted at his movements, Shawn curled away from the deluge and tried not to bite through his lip. After a little over a minute, the water finally eased down to a trickle, and then stopped. The patch of floor beneath him was muddied from the hard spray. Stones and other debris, “ _teeth”_ his mind suggested with a physical shudder, dug into his naked body. He hated being naked. For some activities, yes fine; _warm_ showers, bedroom hijinks, and eating Famous Dave's barbecued pork ribs. But as the kidnapee and possible SVU victim of the Pied Piper of Pantsing, nakedness was unbearable.

 

Actually it was _bare_ able... Damn he wished his brain had left that one alone. Usually he had better control of his punning but clearly panic was short circuiting his ability to prioritize survival over lame humor.

 

Drips pattered on the floor a short distance away. Tiny the Torrential Torturer scuffed across the space between them and Shawn cringed in a now conditioned reaction.

 

“Robyty ni rukhatysia!”

 

Shawn flinched and was instantly grabbed by the arm and placed back where he'd moved from – though it had only been a few inches. It hurt _so much_ , but he kept his wail between his chattering teeth.

 

Tiny leaned down, his voice slower; quieter. “Robyty ni rukhatysia... rozumijete?” 

 

It was either desperation or repetition but he swore he was actually starting to make some sense of the commands. Or maybe it was just common sense. “You...” he hissed at the twist of pain that spiked through his shoulder – riding it out until he could breath again with a trembling gasp. His voice warbled high in pitch but held. “You don't want me... to move...”

 

“Dobre!” The ruffling of his hair confirmed two things. One; he was right. And two; his captor could understand English.

 

As the man moved away, Shawn's anxiety eased just enough to return some clarity to his thoughts. Psychoanalysis was his mom's thing, but that didn't mean he hadn't picked up on a little head shrinking ability himself. A lesser applied skill; one he actively avoided, to be honest, given the psychological side effects; he found himself reaching for it now. It was, after all, one of the few tools left in his utility belt that might actually benefit him... much as the thought of spelunking that mental cavern was infusing the back of his throat with a threatening bath of hot vomit.

 

The man only spoke to him in that throaty language that reminded Shawn of Dolph Lundgren in the fourth Rocky incarnation, _“I will break you”_ not the sudden echoing memory he needed snapping back and forth through his skull right now. Directions were concise, with physical punishment or praise following his responses. It made him feel, if anything, like a pet in the midst of housebreaking. And he winced as he recognized the epiphany for what it was. This was exactly why he hated toying around with his mom's profession. 

 

Tiny broke up his pondering as his bare feet slapped across the rough floor. Theory testing might not be in his best interests right then, but Shawn also suspected the big boy didn't want him dead. At least, not right yet. And as... _icky_... as it was to get inside his head, it was about the only defense to be had if escape and/or rescue was to be gained. He had to know if his assumptions were real. And though, what he had to do made his gut twist into a fresh baked pretzel, he didn't see any other options.

 

As the man bent down, his hand stretching out, Shawn jerked away. Immediately the hand swung out and cuffed him across the jaw.

 

“Pogano!” He was swatted again, even harder. “Pogano!” _“Bad”_ – the same tone he'd heard his neighbor use when their dog peed on the carpet. 

 

Curled and facing away from the strikes, Shawn heard the man straighten. There was a brief rustling, and then knees popped as Tiny knelt once more. His hand cupped around Shawn's jaw and forced up his head while the other hand pushed something familiar and dry against his lips.

 

“Yzha.”

 

 _Eat_. No more willing than before to munch on the rocky lumps, Shawn fought to keep his teeth together – snuffling through his nose as the bread was ground against his incisors. 

 

“Ni!” Fingertips dug into his cheeks so hard that they pried his teeth apart. The bread was shoved into his mouth and then the process of forcing him to chew and swallow began all over again. Bite after bite was crammed down his throat in the same way – barely allowing breath as he was force fed the rough material.

 

Overcome by the dry texture, Shawn coughed and choked on the most recent hunk before he spit it back on the floor. Rather than punish him, Tiny patted his back to help expel the rest of the small bits. After a moment of rasping, Shawn felt something else push against his lips. He didn't have to hear the muttered “voda” to know what it was. His arms twitched to pull the water bottle closer, but bound against the small of his back, he could only lie on his side and drink as much as possible until it was pulled away again.

 

Water spilled down his chin and he licked his lips, wishing for more.

 

“Dobre.” Another head pat and the man moved away again. Shawn held still until the footsteps moved to the far end of the room. His gasp was the first deep breath he allowed himself in several minutes. He was exhausted from wrestling with his captor and, though the floor was cold beneath his bare skin, he couldn't help sagging flat against the concrete.

 

His shoulder was still throbbing – the pain surging with blinding spikes that caught his breath in irregular grunts. He wanted to escape so badly, but the strength to do so was seeping out of him fast. A few minutes was all the rest he needed. He'd gather his mind back together like sweeping broken glass into a cloth bag. As long as it was all collected into one place it should still function.

 

He licked his lips again, still wishing for more water but too tired to plead for it.

 

Sleep first. Just a few minutes.

 

Just a few...

 

But... he couldn't sleep. Passing out was essentially a prerequisite right at that point, but just as he was at the brink of tunnel vision, a sharp thread of panic had rushed through his spine. Nothing should have caused it. Tiny was still on the other end of the room – shuffling and moving things around. Maybe he was setting up for a game of Backgammon...

 

And then Shawn heard it again – a wet chop he could identify in his sleep... or on the verge of unconsciousness. There was a scrape, followed by something clattering on the table, and then a hiss that was so much like the sound of running water that he whined. It wasn't running water though.

 

In a few moments, the hiss intensified to sharp pops and snaps. And not long after that, he could smell it.

 

His stomach growled as the scent of cooking meat began to overtake the heavy stench of rot and waste. It shouldn't have been remotely appetizing, but going on for this length of time with just a few scraps of bread to tide him over, he couldn't help the hunger response. 

 

He tracked the steps that moved about on the other end of the table. Every time the steps shuffled his way, he tensed his legs and held his body like a tight coil. But Tiny always turned – heading into the adjoining room rather than approach. 

 

The meat cooked for about ten minutes before Tiny removed it from the heat. It continued sizzling for a short while afterward. From the sounds that soon followed, it was clear the large man had settled in on his meal. Imagining the various implements he may have been using to aid consumption (spork, machete, stone knife) was only entertaining for a micro second. In truth, Shawn would have allowed himself to be hand fed if it meant eating more substantial fare than he'd been offered so far.

 

Steak, though, didn't seem to be in the cards for him. After many minutes of loud chewing, Tiny finally moved from the table again; bumping it with his side and knocking it several inches as he headed across the room.

 

Shawn kept his eyes to the wall as bare knees knelt next to his head. He expected the familiar command by this point, so it was a little strange that the other man said nothing. Then a hand moved towards his face and he flinching – surprised by the motion. However, he wasn't struck this time. Instead, he felt the thick, grease slathered fingers stroke through his hair. It was so gross. Gross, gross, gross and embarrassing and he wanted to jerk away but he didn't dare. He'd been on the hurty side of the man's temper a tad too much already – no way he was giving the guy another reason to slap him around. Even if it _was_ humiliating to be caressed like a labradoodle.

 

“Dobre. Dobre.” A last pat and Tiny shifted, bringing his other hand forward. Shawn could still smell meat on the man's fingers as the small hunk of bread rubbed against his lips. Not willing to fight it this time, he prepared to accept it, only to have the food pulled away. The free hand reappeared and rested against his chest.

 

“Eh... bud'laska, tak?”

 

Shawn shook his head at yet another new word. “I don't...”

 

The slap was fast – no time to brace himself. His head snapped sideways and rapped against the floor. He tasted dirt and blood.

 

Then, just as gently – even managing to sound patient – Tiny repeated himself.

 

“Bud'laska. Bud'laska.” He held the bread close to Shawn's face – nudging it a bit. It occurred to Shawn that he was expected to beg for his food. He swallowed and felt the tickle of earth in his throat.

 

“B-bood...laska.” He whispered. No movement from Tiny, so he said it again – truly pleading.

 

There was a grunt, and Shawn swore he heard as smile behind the non word response, as the bread was pushed between his lips.

 

Surprised by the rumble in his gut as well as the rush of saliva, Shawn opened his mouth for the stale bread – chewing without being forced and accepting the second piece with actual eagerness. It was still just as dry; just as hard as it had been before; and yet, he couldn't help his hunger.

 

Tiny continued to feed him for several minutes – interspersing the bread with sips of water. Shawn ate so fast that he ended up biting his lip several times – the last time so hard he heard the crunch and felt the flesh swell.

 

Too soon the bread was gone and Tiny was standing again.

 

Shawn was still hungry, but even though he repeated the foreign word several more times, it did no good.

 

He stayed on the floor, partially curled, as the large man returned to the far end of the room. There was more clattering of activity, but interest in what he was doing had vanished. The exhaustion that had danced away a short while ago had now returned, and coupled with chills and stress, Shawn couldn't hold it at bay any longer. 

 

With the sound of metal scraping metal on the other side of the room, he closed his eyes and slid away.


	5. Though I Crawl Through the Valley

It was still dark when he woke up. There was a wonderful moment where he thought he still had some night left to finish his dream while also wondering what had happened to his blanket... and then he remembered.

 

He'd woken because he was shivering. Not so little tremors shook him from toe tips to lips – even his breath came out in stuttering fits. He didn't want to move in spite of needing to do exactly that. If Tiny was close, activity might encourage the man to go another round with the fire hose. Or maybe he'd play Thanksgiving with his captive taking on the role of the stuffed turkey. More bread? Why yes, please; I can't get enough of your savory cooking!

 

Shawn tried to put an edge of sarcasm into his thoughts but wit and wits had slunk from his mind and left him only with fear as a bunkmate. It truly sucked – this emotion being one he'd never spent a great deal of time getting to know. He preferred to siphon off his anxiety and let Gus handle it instead. Gus could store up fear like a camel for those long desert walks.

 

Okay, so apparently Mr. Nonsense was still hanging around. He'd have to sub for sarcasm until a suitable replacement could be found.

 

Sudden clanking propelled his mind back to the surface as imaginings went from his best friend transporting nomads on his back across the Arabian desert to the vivid impression of two glowing eyes turning towards the sound he'd just made.

 

He froze.

 

It was so hard to keep himself from panting. Just the action of his lungs was enough to crowd away other movements. Footsteps could be sliding his way and he'd be ignorant of the approach until the creature lunged for his throat. Swallowing was worse – thick and sticky residue created a dry click at the back of his tongue.

 

The trudging of time had nothing to mark it with both sun and glowing numerals absent from his eyes. A wild guess, his go-to when “informed theory” wasn't available, was that somewhere around fifteen minutes had gone by since he'd stopped all motion including the activity that processed breathing.

 

So he might have been off a touch but it damn well _felt_ as though fifteen minutes had slogged past by the time he sucked at the air with the sound of a drowning wildebeest.

 

Somewhere during the lull between coughing and choking, he noticed that his hands were unbound. It was there and gone before he took his next breath.

 

Anything alive and sharing his oxygen definitely knew he was awake now. But even after he'd gone through the reflexes of sputtering and gasp-sobbing, there was no activity... anywhere. Not even from the rodent variety. So... that was good. Great would be better but these things had to be taken in steps. The first step? Get his naked butt off the floor.

 

He realized he'd overlooked several major steps in between when his first motion ripped a bolt of pain through his shoulder and down his right side. He was back to holding breath once more as he pounded his left fist against the concrete. Of secondary note, when gravity pulled him onto his back, was that his spine had stiffened to near immobility.

 

Reaching for the “getting too old” card would actually have been a comfort – but age had very little to do with why his vertebrae were locked together like Leggos. Kicked, shoved, hung by his ankles, left passed out on a freezing floor... the fact that he was still capable of any movement at all was a testament to youth more than anything.

 

His breath had returned somewhere in the middle of his inward self justification. Now that he was fully aware of his agonies, he readjusted his goals and prepared for the simpler step of merely rolling to his stomach.

 

By now his right arm was useless – a throbbing combination of numbness and pain that wouldn't have made sense if he wasn't feeling the effect for himself. With only one arm working as a somewhat floppy oar, he made a passable effort of righting the good ship Shawn. Somewhat greater effort was put into play when it came to dry docking – at which point his metaphors had long since stopped making sense. In any event, he considered himself seaworthy when his cargo hold stopped threatening to eject off the forward stern... stern or starboard? Whatever. He wasn't at risk of puking anymore so it was time to leave the harbor and discover new territory. And, God, he hoped that was the last boat related thought.

 

The first slide forward of a muscle rigid leg was an introduction to a vast new world of hurts. His previously injured joints had swollen in the time he'd been out – stiff, like his spine – immobile and hot with pain. The clank of thick metal followed the motion – a tug of burn that flooded up his legs. The manacles had rubbed raw through his ankles, the tops of his feet, and partway up his shins. He shifted his weight for the next step – and with no warning, crumpled left and struck the floor hard.

 

“Shit!” He barely squeaked the curse out as his right hand jerked to his leg. Just moving the damaged limb was cause for another profanity as bones, still very much broken, scraped against each other.

 

His legs were solid ache from the thighs down. His ankles were the worst though. Not only did they hurt, but they seemed to have lost both strength and flexibility. He thought they might be sprained – maybe from that last time he'd been hung upside down.

 

He was James Caan in Misery – finally left alone by the crazy, obsessed killer – only to face the terrible truth that, despite his heroic willpower, escape wasn't possible because he couldn't walk. There wasn't even a convenient wheelchair nearby that could allow him to search the property for a large knife. The door at the top of the stairs could have been left wide open now and it wouldn't have mattered. Shackled or not, the dismal reality of the situation sank into him like blunt claws. He was trapped.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Other than Guster's cocker spaniel eyes and the elder Spencer's assertions, they had yet to find any concrete proof that Spencer junior was anywhere other than exactly where he wanted to be. His apartment, barely qualifying for that distinction, had all the earmarks of a break in. But only to an unpracticed eye. Though Carlton prided himself on a neat and orderly living space, he still recognized the fallout brought on by a single male newly freed from the chains of romantic semi co-habitation. Clothes better suited for disposal than washing had infested various and unique locations – one of the more interesting being a tattered Blackhawks t shirt that had nested in the plastic shade of a floor lamp. Fire hazard one? Check.

 

“See? This proves Shawn hasn't been here!”

 

The excited exclamation from the psychic duo's dubiously better half was just another headache inducing reminder that civilians had no place in an investigation. However, Carlton no longer had the same authoritative sway over the matter; due primarily because of Henry Spencer's involvement (not that he'd ever truly kept the man from butting in where he wasn't wanted/needed/welcome. Whatever Junior decried, the two really were the same person). And since the Head of External Divisions (that the acronym was “H.E.D.” was not a lost irony) wanted Guster involved as well, the detective was forced to allow him access.

 

But, access did not equal willy nilly wandering hither and near over a possible crime scene.

 

“Guster, put that down!” Carlton snatched the remote – his finger bumping the volume control and raising the bars into “disturbing the peace” territory. Reflex plastered his free hand against one ear as he fumbled the mute and prepared to further lambaste the one figure still contaminating his airspace. However, Guster beat him to the punch.

 

“There's no American Duos!”

 

Carlton shook his head. How either of these two functioned alone was a mystery. It was obvious the strain of going solo was taking a mental toll. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Gus pointed at the screen – which Carlton only gave a glance. He needed to get back to searching the rest of the apartment and checking out Spencer's TiVo preferences wasn't helping to accomplish that goal. He'd never had to work at showing irritation and with his glare gaining strength, Guster must have put together that he needed to be clearer in his revelations – bad habits shared with his partner were not winning friends at the moment.

 

“American Duos was on last night, but Shawn didn't record it.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, Shawn always records American Duos!”

 

Carlton shrugged, his attention already drifting to the surrounding clutter. “Big deal! He probably forgot – or maybe he had a date and decided to skip it. It's a TV show, not a clue!”

 

The man stepping into his line of sight returned his focus to the conversation at hand – the pharmaceutical salesman showing a rare degree of hutzpah as he invaded a dangerous level of personal space.

 

“Shawn would never forget! And he hasn't been on a date since...” The sentence was left in tatters as Guster snapped his mouth shut. Not like he was sharing state secrets or anything – this didn't even rate as locker room gossip. And Carlton hardly cared about the state of Spencer's sex life. In fact, the topic alone made him shudder.

 

Raised voices just outside the small building saved him from the migraine in the making as he brushed past the other man, pausing to point Henry towards him with a “you brought him, you handle him” before continuing on to where Buzz stood just outside the double glass doors, hands raised to block.

 

Carlton saw why within the next two steps and couldn't help groaning at the smarmy red frog's mouth in motion just beyond McNab's right elbow. The woman was like a locus. Not for the first time he pictured her legs, hidden by cheap blue polyester, as thin, barbed claws. She probably ate her lovers after mating too.

 

Squeezing out the door without allowing the cerulean clothed reporter more than a peek at the interior was a skill best left to those not fitted with a bulky shoulder holster. But much as Carlton would have loved pawning this duty off to his junior partner; the job, unfortunately, was his alone.

 

“Detective Lassiter, what can you tell me about the disappearance of the SBPD's Head Psychic, Shawn Spencer?”

 

He knew it was an intentional goad to drop his full title while granting it to Spencer, but that didn't mean he was immune to the barb. Bristling, he tightened his lips across his teeth in a smile that more evolved humans recognized as a threat to their chances of ever passing on genes to the next generation.

 

Sheffy, though, seemed to still be working her way up to Iceman status. Mini recorder in hand, she thrust it with an aggressive jab towards his face.

 

It was at the back of his teeth to ask where she'd gotten her information. However, that was exactly what she was wanting from him. The last thing he needed was to provide her with additional ammunition.

 

“No comment.” Tried and true and completely useless with the Helen Thomas understudy in his face – her personal photographer attempted to skirt around the tall detective to snap a shot of the apartment's interior. As it was, all he managed was a close up of Carlton's hand. Sheffy, however, wasn't even close to done.

 

“But surely even you can't deny the odd coincidence, can you, detective? One of your own men, vanishing right out from under your nose, just like the victims of the Tooth Fairy?”

 

“Okay, first of all, that sideshow act _isn't_ one of my men...!”

 

“Detective!”

 

Carlton jumped as Chief Vick seemed to appear, magically, over the shoulder of the minute reporter. How she could have snuck up behind a woman that she had a good two feet on without him noticing he'd far rather attribute to her sudden ninja skills than any shortcomings on his part. He wouldn't even blame the previous night of clock staring; it wasn't as though he hadn't gone on only an hour of sleep before.

 

Hustling him backward without even raising a hand was another skill she displayed as she took over the interview – her abrupt “no comment” far more effective than his own.

 

With Sheffy escorted back by McNab (the imposing lug of officer with the features of a cherub somehow accomplishing an envious level of intimidation) Carlton and Vick reentered the apartment.

 

He fully expected a dressing down for nearly breaking a rule he himself had had a hand in enforcing. However, Vick seemed more in the mood for a status update rather than roasting his carcass on the grill. More than happy to keep her attention off of himself, Carlton extrapolated as heavily as he could on all the ways that they had found exactly zip.

 

So really, it was inevitable that both Guster and Henry would choose that moment to argue the complete opposite. And as many times as he'd been on this side of the fence, Carlton couldn't help himself when he saw the intrigued spark glow to life in Vick's eyes.

 

“Oh, come on, Chief, this is total crap! You're buying this because of a TV show?”

 

The spark became a small flame when the gaze swung his way. “Yes, detective, I am, in fact, _buying it_. Nobody has seen or heard from Mr. Spencer in nearly two days and until we do, we go on the assumption that he was taken against his will.”

 

Irate and capable of defending his position, Carlton still backed off when Vick began laying plans for the next step. Had he wanted, he could have pointed out that every moment spent on the alleged missing Spencer was another moment lost in the search for _known_ victims. He could have brought up the families of these missing persons hanging on desperately to fraying threads for any news whatsoever. The phrase _bigger fish to fry_ came to mind.

 

He could have said all those things without a trace of apology, but he didn't. It wasn't because of the nervous tension pinballing between the two men beside him. It wasn't even because of the glare directed his way by his Chief. It was because, in the middle of his argument, him mind had locked on a memory. Shawn Spencer, bloodied and pale from the early stages of shock, holding himself up while he leaned on Carlton's car. For a moment, after his weak joke about Rodriguez somebody, he'd flicked his eyes to the man who'd held him captive all night.

 

For just a moment, the humor and relief had fled away.

 

And in its place had been raw, naked, fear.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

Among other, less positive things he'd been accused of as a child, it was his stubborn temperament that had both pleased and exasperated his parents throughout his life. Shawn could no more accept his fate, literally lying down, than he could give up on his dream to one day perform in the half time show at the Superbowl.

 

He had one working limb. It was more than enough for an athlete such as himself. Sure, Gus could say what he wanted about his spotty exercise regimen – but why fix what was already toned and Herculean?

 

So with the combined might of his fingers and elbow, Shawn spent about half hour dragging his body ten feet across the floor. The nap somewhere in the middle of his effort totally didn't count either.

 

His exploration had so far failed to yield a shirt, pair of boxers, or even a pillowcase that could function both as a covering as well as warmth. He suspected that further searching would just as fruitless in that respect, but as his dad liked to quote, “to assume makes and ass out of u and me”. Well his ass was cold and dad wasn't there with a toasty blanket so it was time to get back to work on fixing that.

 

Grasp, pull, drag, touch, grasp, pull, drag, touch – in that manner he'd spent the next several hours to map out the space with his fingertips. Keeping to the walls, he'd discovered that the basement was made up of two rooms not counting the closet sized bathroom. The first, where he'd been kept, held a small wooden table and a single chair. There was also a cooking range and an oven. If there was cookware it was either hung or stored out of reach. What he did find in reach, though, was far better than his hunt for weaponry. On the wall outside the bathroom, coiled loops gathered on a hook, was the hose.

 

Thirst had been constant – a dry tackiness in his mouth upon waking, it had grown, now, to an ache for anything wet. He'd been thirsty for as long as he'd been in this dark place – but only in the last hours had the intermittent water allowances begun to truly show their cost. He'd gladly take another freezing shower just to open his mouth to the moisture. He'd have even licked the puddle of water off the floor if the concrete hadn't absorbed the spray while he'd been unconscious. Alright, maybe that last one was dragging it a bit far given what the floor had been soiled with in recent memory.

 

Shawn tugged the hose free from the hook before feeling around for the spout. His surge of joy at finding it was lost practically before he could enjoy the buzz. The handle had been removed, leaving only a fat coupling jutting up from the base of the spigot.

 

Hitching himself up against the wall and leaning against it with his left side, he was able to free his hand to curl around the dew beaded stump of metal. Just the brush of moisture against his fingertips was enough to pull free a tiny whine for what was so close to his reach.

 

Pinching down his grip and locking his jaw, Shawn tried to twist the nub of metal that was the size of a jellybean. But even though he held his breath and wrenched until the muscles in his hand jumped, the thing wouldn't budge.

 

Shaking out the burn in his fingers, he went to plan B and pulled the end of the hose his way. He flinched as the round spout rattled over the cement – a wild instant imagining it was the door shoving open and Godzilla coming back with a chainsaw in his hand. Shedding palpitations with a series of short gasps, he subdued the thick coils well enough that they wouldn't strangle him and lifted the circle of metal to his lips.

 

A thin trickle of water leaked into his mouth. Cool, wet; he rolled the drops around in his mouth, savoring them. Too soon they were appropriated by dry tissues and he was left to seek more. A second pull at the hose yielded nothing more than the taste of metal. There _had_ to be more water trapped in those plastic loops!

 

Yanking it back off the hook, he shook it and squeezed the plastic before tilting it over his mouth. However, nothing more than a couple drops landed on his tongue.

 

_The bathroom..._

 

Of course!

 

It was only a few feet before his hand found the empty space in the wall that opened into the bathroom. Going from rough concrete to grit covered but mostly smooth tile was a relief to his left side which had taken the brunt of his exploration. Hunching his body up to the toilet, he wrapped his arm around the seat to pull himself to his knees. Now he was able to reach the sink – but that also meant the much harder part of this whole enterprise. A couple of deep breaths didn't do much for his determination but at least it postponed things for a few moments.

 

Lashing his hand towards the sink, his overriding hope was that it was solidly connected to the wall. It would suck on so many painful levels to have it bust free. But the porcelain proved to be of sound construction because, other than a dry creak, it held. One more gasp and then he tightened the muscles in his thighs, and pushed.

 

“Ummph... mmm...” His arm shook from supporting most of his weight and he was forced to use his right arm too, though the pain almost dropped him back to the floor. His stomach creased against the hard edge, but he couldn't straighten. Instead, he reached out and felt for the tap.

 

The water pressure was weak and allowed no more than a thin stream, but it was enough to fill his hand and it was cold and wet. He lost much of it between his fingers but enough remained that he could suck it from his palm, one mouthful at a time. The taste was a mix of fishy and rusty but his thirst was too strong to complain about the flavor.

 

He took several more gulps even after his need for liquids had passed, not knowing when he'd have another chance for more. Then, bracing his side against the sink, he sank back towards the floor – the last foot a free fall drop when his fingers lost their grip. Impacting on the tile sent a dart of pain up his spine. His back ached more and more the longer he remained sitting up. So, groaning, he lowered himself to his side again.

 

He couldn't move yet even though he still hadn't investigated the entire area. Now that water no longer motivated him to action, his exhaustion had come back. The endless black didn't help. Funny, he thought, how he'd suffered insomnia while lying in his soft, warm, and terribly missed bed at home. And yet, here he was, passing out while sprawled on the floor of a psycho's death cave.

 

No doubt, Gus would find that hilarious.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. But, since he had no plans for the day, other than escaping, finding some clothes, calling the cops, and maybe making a frozen banana stop before hitting the ER, tracking the time probably wasn't that important.

 

So after some wincing and whimpering at all his agonies, he shifted to his side and resumed his search.

 

It was in the second room that he found what he'd expected, but had desperately not wanted, to find. The smell was richer beyond the doorway, but he was able to mostly control the gag reflex that tickled in his throat. Only a small belch of acid slipped free – the rest swallowed into submission.

 

Three feet into the room, his fingers brushed across the leading edge of a drying pool. He chose to think that the tremble that developed in his hand upon contact was due more to the recent prison diet than fear – to hell with what his twisting gut might say on that. Scrubbing his fingers against the floor didn't fully remove the sticky substance but it was the best he could do for the moment. He couldn't get close to the back wall unless he wanted to belly crawl through a six foot puddle of blood. As revolting an idea that it was, he still rolled it in his mind – pro versus con versus puking his guts out and collapsing in the middle of that horrid mixture.

 

Dragging back towards the first room, ten seconds later, he considered what knowledge his struggle had actually gained him. If there were weapons, he couldn't reach them... _“You can't, Shawn? See, kid, that's your first mistake.”_ Okay, so the ass u me of that thought was that his ankles hadn't healed enough, since his last attempt, to prevent him from falling like King Kong off the Empire State building. Did that mean he wanted to give standing a second shot? No, he wasn't the tallest kid on the basketball court... or the dodgeball court for that matter, but once upright, there was a lot of space between his face and the floor. He wasn't sure he was ready to add broken teeth to his injury list.

 

By feel alone, he finally made it back to his corner of the dungeon. He surprised himself by the comfort he felt in returning to the closest thing resembling familiar in the entire place. Bracing his back against the wall and letting himself occupy the shallow hollow in the floor eased the hum of anxiety that had feathered over his nerves since he'd crawled from the spot what felt like days ago.

 

His breathing had slowed and steadied – his muscles slack as he let himself drift. He felt a gentle touch caress the back of his hand, and in a hovering state between sliding and sleep, a plea... “Mom...” and he opened his eyes to darkness. He turned his hand and felt a thousand legs trickle over his palm. Revolted, he jerked and thrashed his hand and sent the crawling thing away from him. So quiet in his prison that he heard the light plap of the soft bodied form hitting the cement a few feet away. Adrenaline demanded he leap to a chair and draw his feet up beneath him. A single heave of his body proved the impossibility of that attempt.

 

He placed his hand against the floor, determined to try again.

 

And that's when he heard the shattering screech.

 

His captor had returned.


	6. Sink Your Teeth Into This!

The picture they'd used was an old one that they'd probably had on file for nearly a year. The seasons could be tracked by the kid's hair style and the growth of his facial hair. This shot looked like it had been taken sometime last Christmas.

 

Henry dropped the paper back on his desk. Not his usual choice in reading material, the rag held his interest if only because of the picture on the front page. A copy of the same publication rested on the desk facing his. Lassiter, though, had spent more time scowling at the text than the accompanying photograph.

 

“Foppish troglodyte... you know, I should sue her for libel. Actually, what I really should do is put a unit outside her place. Bet she deals meth out of her garage; how else could she afford her house? It's not like they could honestly be paying her anything for this sh...”

 

“Oh, would you give it a rest!? Its been over a week!” Henry shot his arms in the tight discomfort of his jacket. The annoyed squint back held no tolerance for the worry driven snappishness.

 

“Pu-lease! Like you haven't wallpapered your living room with it! Tell me again what she says about you? The... stalwart captain with the sturdy back and bowed head...”

 

Henry crumpled his copy of the article and pitched it in the trash before shoving from his desk – only to just avoid slamming into Chief Vick. Lassiter stood as well at her appearance, though likely motivated to do so from her expression versus respect.

 

“Chief?”

 

No waffling – something Henry had always appreciated about the woman. Especially considering the words she said next.

 

“We may have a lead.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

“My father has been known to hold up a line of cars in a parking lot in order to chew out some poor guy for not putting his grocery cart away. He has actually stated, more than once, that loose grocery carts have been linked to at least five fatalities in the last ten years.”

 

No response. Well that was good though, right? At least he hadn't tried slapping a muzzle on his captive. And sitting in silence was just no longer an option. One little almost hallucination of his mother had been enough to restart the jabbertalky in Shawn's brain – a state that far better suited him than the mute mopester he'd been for most of his stay. 

 

“I mean, grocery carts, right? I've been in more danger on a swing set!”

 

When he was five, his father had bought a swing set for the back yard. It was the year before he met Gus – when he was still an only child in many respects. It was long before words like“work” and “promise” and even his own name would become hateful to him. Back when his mother still came home every night before dinner and both of them tucked him into his bed to sleep. 

 

Dad had taken the evening shift back in those days – one of countless compromises they'd made so that there was always a parent at home. Before dad went to work but after dinner, with Shawn's bedtime only an hour away, the two of them would head out to the yard to play with the new swing set. Clambering on board the flexible seat, he'd grip the chains in his hands and close his eyes – waiting for that first push. And though dad had always had a gentle touch, that brief moment of weightlessness had always made him feel like he was flying. One time, he'd leaned too far back and had slipped off the saddle. A second of open air and wild giddiness, and then the breath had rushed from him when he'd collided against the hard packed dirt. It was the only time his father hadn't caught him when he'd fallen.

 

At least, with regards to the swing set.

 

Tiny was doing the mute thing again. He never _was_ very talkative at the best of times, except when he was involved with feeding his reluctant pet – though even then it was one or two word orders. Shawn had learned to ask for what he wanted. Ask? No... that implied a benign interaction with an expected outcome. He was now required to beg – plead for everything from water to the use of the toilet. Sometimes Tiny acquiesced immediately. Sometimes... 

 

Shawn had been left on his own at least eight times by his count. So far, this time, the man had yet to approach him where he rested, curled against the corner of the wall where the floor had been worn smooth. Maybe it was the chatter – not that that had worked before, but maybe they were finally bonding as captive and captor? Kind of like a reverse Stockholm syndrome or something.

 

“But golf carts, now let me tell you – those things can be murder!” His teeth clamped on his tongue a second too late. He was supposed to be _forgetting_ about that little side effect to his imprisonment, not bringing it up in casual conversation!

 

The sliding step Shawn was now well used to scraped his way – a block of dark cutting off the spare glow from the lit stove.

 

“Robyty ni rukhatysia.” _Don't move._ He was learning the words with so much repetition; much the way he'd picked up smidgens of Spanish and Thai. Of course, Tiny only used a handful of phrases with him anyhow, no matter how often Shawn had tried to start a conversation with the guy, so figuring out what was being said to him hadn't been too complicated. 

 

The command wasn't exactly needed anymore; Shawn knew what he was supposed to do. But body and mind had begun to divorce themselves over the hours upon hours of dark and terror to the point where he could tell himself to do one thing, and his body would rebel. And it was rebelling now even knowing what it would cost him.

 

 _Don't move, don't move..._ It was a pointless mantra because the moment Tiny bent towards him, Shawn jerked away and pressed into the corner. 

 

The hand that lashed out was hidden in the darkness so there was no preparation for the blow against his ear.

 

“Pogano!” 

 

Two more slaps. _corrections_ , and he cringed from them, knowing the only way the man would stop would be if he kept still and didn't fight. 

 

Then the hands grasped the chain between his ankles and heaved.

 

Whimpers and cries were ignored, they always were, as he was settled on the hook. Every time, it hurt more. Joints and sockets had been wrenched brutally – yanked until they popped – until ligaments stretched and tore. He cried from the pain. One of so many things he could no longer control.

 

He'd never had to bargain with himself before as his mind and body usually got along almost as well as himself and Gus. But things were so different now. And not just because of what was currently happening. Truthfully, things had started changing right around the time he'd been called in for what he'd assumed was a reward for a solid tip.

 

Those first little divides had been small – forgettable...

 

 _Tell the truth, he'll never believe you, you're going to get caught!_

 

_Did you see the size of the guys in the cell? They're eying you like they want to play capture the flag with your..._

 

_They'll believe you!_

 

_They won't!_

 

_Don't do it!_

 

“ _I got the information because... I'm psychic.”_

 

Minor breaks – what Gus had called stupid but he'd merely thought of as free-spirited...

 

_She'll slap you._

 

_She won't._

 

_She'll hate you._

 

_No chance; have you seen this hair?_

 

_You're gonna blow everything._

 

“ _Well, I guess you have to get home and... feed your parrot...”_

 

Small moments – where making the choices were about desire over logic. Body over mind...

 

“Hmm... Dah... zanum...” Tiny shuffled his feet against the floor and tapped at the plastic housing on the dial. 

 

Shawn still hadn't picked up that word, zanum, but he knew what was implied by the muttering. He'd figured out by the fourth trip upside down that the hook was attached to a scale. Tiny was weighing him. He didn't like what he was seeing.

 

Shawn didn't like the implications.

 

But if he thought about it he'd panic...

 

_Breathe... ignore the stink all around you... they're coming for you..._

 

Large hands wrapped around the chain. Shawn pulled his right arm tight to his body, but when he was dropped, the broken bone lurched under his skin from the impact and he cried out.

 

_Don't fight him!_

 

_Don't make it worse!_

 

He kicked with his feet – the shackles digging into the wounds they'd made – tearing skin with the motion. His reach was stunted and the strike was weak, but the man still shouted his word for “bad” and punished with an open hand. He never hit hard enough to damage – only to hurt. To force submission.

 

Shawn was learning to cower.

 

_Mind over body..._

 

His body, it seemed, was trying to get him killed. Was this a new goal or an old one? Had this always been the case, or was he only, finally, realizing the truth now? 

 

His mind was into self preservation over all other things. His mind was the one that told him to run away – to shut up and be quiet – to not poke the serial killer through the bars of her cage...

 

“ _You're gonna rot in a cell with four padded walls, the end.”_

 

Or provoke the man with the gun...

 

“ _I believe the term you're looking for is divined.”_

 

Or the other man with the gun...

 

“ _Draw a hot bath. It doesn't matter who goes first...”_

 

Until the day came when neither mind nor body were capable of reaction any longer. 

 

_You have to save her!_

 

_I don't know where she is!_

 

_It's your fault this happened!_

 

_I don't know what to do!_

 

_If you choose one, the other dies!_

 

_If I choose none they both die!_

 

_Make a choice!_

 

_I can't!_

 

_You can!_

 

_I'm afraid..._

 

_There's no time for fear!_

 

_I can't win... can I?_

 

_No._

 

Yin – no – _Tiny_ , had moved to far end of the room now. Metal clinked together, followed by a high squeak as threads fed into themselves – a sound that had a place in memories of open air and wet grass. Now, though, it jolted a shock of anticipated misery. Cold had built upon cold in the dank belly of the pit. Shawn couldn't name the last day he'd felt warmth. And as the sound of plastic coils struck on concrete, he whispered a short grunt and tensed.

 

The gout of icy spray was always colder than he could prepare for. It seared through the bubble he'd tried to keep around himself to see his mind through each moment – raw and thudding as it traveled the length of his form and back again. The roar seemed to scrape his flesh like sandpaper. Water filled his ears and nose – pressed against his eyes and forced at his closed lids – filled his throat. He was drowning.

 

And then it stopped. A winding squeak as the pressure went from torrent to trickle. 

 

The spout of the hose clanked against the floor as it was dropped and bare feet slapped through the moat around Shawn's body. 

 

Joints popped as the larger man knelt – his proximity bringing the smells of aged sweat. Too bad he wasn't as invested in hygiene for himself as he was for his guest. Knowing what was expected of him next, Shawn opened his lips to beg for food. Instead, he gagged as a hand wrapped around his lower jaw and a finger invaded his mouth. He tried to push the man away but was slapped for his efforts. The finger intruded once more, this time joined by several more digits as they felt across his teeth – gripping and tugging his incisors. 

 

“Awphaw!” The protest had never intended to be a word, just an expression of deep complaint about the man paw that was groping his most sacred orifice. If only he'd done more push ups with his tongue he'd be able to eject the not so finger lickin' good... fingers. Okay, so he hadn't done any push ups per-say, tongue or otherwise in like... ever. The point was...

 

“PhwaaaAAOUT OF MY MOUTH!” Spitting the residue of wherever those nasty claws had explored previous to his tonsils, Shawn wracked his brain for one of those foreigny words to beg for what would be equivalent to 'Scope'. He'd even brave the cinnamon kind. 

 

However, it was Tiny who spoke first.

 

“Voda?” It had been a while since anything had been offered, penalty withheld, and Shawn enthusiastically responded to the charity.

 

“Yes! Yes, Voda! Voda all over the place! Okay, maybe not all over the place but definitely in my mouth! No offense to your stinky fingers but that was a little more personal that I like to get with someone who isn't hot, female, and a fan of Purell.”

 

No foot slaps so apparently the big guy already had the bottle in his hand. Seconds later it was tipped forward and Shawn fumbled it against his lips before drinking just fast enough that he wouldn't choke. He was learning not to give the benefit of the doubt that he'd be offered more once it was taken away.

 

As he'd predicted, within moments the bottle was lifted away. Attuned to the roar of empty air, Shawn could hear the cap screwing back in place. So much for his evening drink. Or... morning? It bothered him that he didn't know.

 

“Myaso.”

 

That was a new word; Shawn rolled it over his tongue in silence until something brushed against his lower lip and he realized food, also, was being freely given. The warm and recognized smell brought a deep inhale and an urgent gush of moisture to his mouth and he actually lunged for the small bite – feeling his incisors scrape over fingertips but not caring as his teeth sank into the chewy morsel. Meat. Actual meat! Siding closer to shoe leather than slicable with a butter knife it was, never-the-less, heaven.

 

To finally be offered something other than stale bread made the new taste a gourmet treat. To gorge himself on protein was bliss akin to orgasmic. Bite after bite was chewed and swallowed, the fingers that petted through his hair tolerated as long as he could finally eat something with substance. And, unlike with the bread, his captor seemed to delight in feeding him. All that was required was to chew, swallow, and open his mouth for the next hunk. Beef, pork, hell it could even be rat – so long as it finally defeated the never-ending starvation cramps in his belly.

 

Eventually, he found he actually had to call it quits on his feasting. Little Cindy Lou Who had eaten her fill of roast beast and Mr. Grinch could feel free to put away the knife and fork. 

 

Another sip of water to help him swallow down the last stringy fibers and Tiny stood and walked away.

 

Curled on the floor, Shawn utilized the tip of his tongue to clear the bits of protein from teeth. What he wouldn't give for a toothpick about now. A minty one with the little curly sprigs sprouting from the other end.

 

Tiny was still moving around in his half a kitchen – cleaning up from the sound of it. 

 

Shawn dropped his temple against the floor and licked his lips, tasting the trace of salt that remained there. He cleared his throat in a useless attempt to defeat the rasp that had found a home in his tonsils. Then, without planning to, he spoke aloud the throbbing sincerity that filled his chest.

 

“Thank you.”


	7. Devil's Feast

The young woman at the restaurant squinted as she examined the four by five Polaroid in Lassiter's hand.

 

“Are you...”

 

“Are you _sure_ this is the guy you saw?” 

 

“Henry, I swear I will lock you in my trunk...”

 

Ignoring him, the elder Spencer twin leaned forward as he snatched the photograph from Lassiter's fingers and held it out to the girl. “Get a good look, Miss Hernandez. This was the man you saw on Wednesday the fourth?”

 

Lassiter held back his rant as sweet little Debbi tilted her head and dropped a fist to rest on her hip. “Yeah, that's the guy. He asked me if he could get a breakfast burrito with Lucky Charms and Greek yogurt.”

 

Henry grimaced. “Yeah, that's him.”

 

Taking the opportunity while the other man was reclaiming the picture, Lassiter also leaned in and dragged the soft brown eyes his way. “Did you...”

 

“Did you happen to see what time he left that night?”

 

The twitch in his cheek was the only thing to indicate he'd just bit into his tongue as the detective restrained every muscle in his body from digging out his handcuffs and tossing the old coot in the back of his car. For not the first time he regretted not having his new vehicle outfitted with a cage. The wrinkled buzzard hadn't changed his ways with his new position at the station – a hiring choice that had motivated Lassiter had actually type out a written letter of protest. Just because the man had wriggled his way off of the Crap List for one act of humanitarianism didn't mean there wasn't space to add him right back on. There were a lot of pages in that notepad and plenty of room on the backup flash disk too.

 

Inner musing didn't short out his hearing and Lassiter tuned back into the conversation as the waitress rolled her eyes at the question she'd been asked.

 

“Yeah – I thought for certain he was actually interested in getting together after I clocked out, but instead he just got wasted on cocktails and his friend had to practically carry him out.”

 

“Friend?” The single word question was the only one that Lassiter actually managed to ask – the follow up confirmation, of course, overtaken by his unwelcome and very temporary partner.

 

“You mean this man?” How many pictures was Spencer carrying in his wallet anyhow? Whipping out a folded article, he pointed to his son's grinning sidekick as the two of them posed outside their business.

 

Debbi with an i only glanced at the picture for a second this time before shaking her head.

 

No, he was a white guy; tall and kinda big – maybe around forty? I don't know, I was at another table when they went out.”

 

Henry tapped the folded paper against his hand. “Do you think you could describe him for a sketch artist?”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Maybe he was finally getting used to the temperature. His shivering had been reduced to only occasionally – pretty much whenever he was drenched in his daily shower. Or... he assumed it was daily... It was the closest thing he had to tracking time at any rate and not the best one either. 

 

Something crawled over his lips, but the time when something like that would startle or revolt him had long passed. He had no energy to brush it aside anyhow. The soft tickle of many legs moved down his throat before the creature most likely jumped ship, given he no longer felt the delicate sensation.

 

He was hungry. He was always hungry. He'd only had meat that one time, and then, nothing. He'd been washed twice since then. He'd begged, voice rasping in English as well as the foreign words. Only his pleas for water had been answered, and then only once. As for using the bathroom... Being denied for hours upon hours had finally had a cost. Unable to stand, now, with ankles and feet swollen and wrenched beyond use, he'd done the best he could to aim for the farthest corner. 

 

But even in the dark and through the heavy stench of rot, Tiny had known.

 

He'd been... brutal. Worse than anything he'd done before. Shawn had lost consciousness after the first few minutes. How long he was out was no more measurable than his time awake, but the icy water striking his body hadn't allowed for further sleep. 

 

Since then, Tiny had retreated into the other room. Shawn could hear his movements as those large feet scraped on the concrete – callouses dragging against the rough floor. What else was in that room? Other than the residue of murder and the occasional centipede? There was a large chunk of it that had been left unexplored and now a dampened curiosity prodded in the narrow path dividing his ribs. Or maybe that was just dread. 

 

The sudden squall of table legs shoving against the floor made him jump. Tiny had returned to the main room – bringing with him something that smelled like uncooked steaks. Dog-like and famished, Shawn licked his lips and was a step away from whining as he squinted towards the sounds nearby. 

 

Scrapes and chops of a heavy blade biting down through bone and into wood resulted in an audible growl in his stomach. Even Tiny paused in his work to chuckle.

 

“Holodny? Ha ha!”

 

Shawn licked his lips again. No idea what he'd just been asked, though it was possible it had to do with food. Begging hadn't worked recently, but the trouble was, that was all he had.

 

“Bud'laska...” Saying please in English was bad enough – grabbing what he wanted was far more his style. But never had he needed to plea so hard for something so basic. “Yzha... um... yzha mayo... dammit...” Why did he have such a hard time remembering words? Pictures? No problem – he had them in a snap. But so often the spoken word eluded him. His mom, though – she could remember everything from the first thing he'd said to her to the last time they'd said goodbye on the phone.

 

“Uh...m-myaso?” He coughed, struggling with the guttural words. Tiny laughed again before he resumed hacking at the meat. Either he'd got it right and pleased his host or screwed it up and could expect to go without supper. Again.

 

Well he'd made an effort. A pretty damn good effort actually; he was exhausted.

 

The clatter of the cutting tool dropping to the table was followed by footsteps heading around the piece of furniture. The little glow of orange at the back of the room disappeared as it was blocked – a clang of metal on metal and then, a sound that brought an involuntary jog in his throat, the sizzle of meat on a hot pan.

 

What was the Klingon word for medium rare?

 

The urge to talk was bubbling up again, a yammering tapping behind his lips like his teeth were screaming. That made no sense – he knew that. However, nonsense was his medium and embracing it was the only comfort to be found in this place.

 

“Did you know that Henderson's on Fifth has, by far, the best pork rib barbecue in the state? Nay, possibly even the whole west coast? I'm asking because you seem to have a thing for cooking and maybe a little exposure to a few alternative flavor options might inspire you.”

 

Nothing? Well the man was busy what with preparing food and all. Maybe he just didn't like barbecue. Maybe he was more of a curry guy – little Indian action. Not that Shawn was willing to take that chance. Once in a lifetime was enough of that. Since that night at the Singh's, he hadn't been able to taste anything sour. It took half the fun away from eating Sweet Tarts.

 

And now he wanted Sweet Tarts.

 

“Myaso?”

 

Shawn looked up, though the pitch of the black hadn't changed in the last three to thirty-five minutes that he'd spent musing on candy. As he came back to himself, he could feel the shape of Tiny hunched over his body. He could also smell the cooked meat he held in his hands.

 

“God, yes!” Forgetting himself in an outburst of English, Shawn tried to shift his body more to his side, only to gasp as all the subdued pains roared back to life at his movement. Expecting another slap for his lapse he was more than startled to feel, instead, heavy fingers stroke his cheek in flesh crawling comfort. The gentle touch was revolting as it moved to his temples and pushed strands of hair from his forehead. He could handle anger and even violence, plenty of practice there. But this sick affection left him dry mouthed and terrified into silence.

 

As soon as he calmed from the spasms working across his limbs, the petting ended. Tiny adjusted his bare knees against the floor, no doubt finding the stony surface just as unpleasant as his captive did, and pulled the smoky sweet food into his lap. 

 

“Yzha.” The first bite barely brushed Shawn's lips before he was wolfing it down. Tiny must have caught a few episodes of Good Eats since the last pork roast because the meat was tender and easy to chew. Shawn even grunted a few Mmms – unable to help it as the bite filled his mouth.

 

Just as before, he almost snapped at each mouthful – wishing his hands were free so he could grab the entire slab and sink his fangs into it like a hyena. Grease slicked his lips; specks of food messed his chin. Tiny stroked fingers through his hair in-between tearing off bites and as Shawn began chewing the next hunk, he opened his eyes and glanced down.

 

The action of his teeth froze. Horror clenched the hinge of his jaw – he couldn't move. 

 

Thick fingers dug into the cooked limb – wrestling free another small hunk with a wet rip. Shawn choked on the flesh filling his mouth. His gut lurched and he spat once before losing control of his stomach. He only managed a single convulsion before he felt the open handed slap impact the side of his face. His stomach surged again and foreign words that must have been curses overlapped the rough gagging as Shawn twisted to his side. He wasn't struck while he vomited the rest of the tissue. Even thinking about it being enough to restart the process of heaving. He'd eaten... oh God... Oh GOD!

 

The moment his gagging stopped, Tiny began to beat him.

 

He kept himself curled towards the floor – both too sick and too weak to block the strikes. What had he done? How could he have... Who...

 

“ _Please... please you have to get me out, please...”_

 

Seth...

 

God, Seth...

 

He gagged again – acid and bile spotting the concrete. His body continued to shake with every blow – his muscles numb enough that most of it wasn't even felt. He couldn't grasp it. His mind could click together scattered facts and build scenarios out of thin air. But this... the evidence puddled before him on the floor... No. No, it didn't make sense! He couldn't have! He couldn't...

 

A final kick and Tiny moved away, pulling deep, shaking breaths. It said something about the man's diet if a little roughing up left him winded.

 

Shawn hacked a gasp into the dirt – a hysterical barking laugh that strangled to silent rasps. 

 

He hadn't noticed when Tiny left him, but he heard the slam of the door that sealed him in his dungeon. Abandoned. 

 

The enormity of what he'd done boiled over his scalp and seared through his chest.  His mind wanted to shut down but his heart took over before it could.  Unable to face his crime, he turned his face towards the floor and cried.

 

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

It turned out the sketch wasn't needed after all. Sweet little Debbi with the sweet little i at the end of her name picked out three possibles from a stack of photographs. One was currently on parole after serving ten years on the attempted murder of a store clerk during a robbery. One was a repeat offender – in and out for a few years before holing up in some crappy little town outside of Ventura. Winner number three was Carlton's personal favorite. Skinhead, spent more time in jail than out, current whereabouts? According to the paperwork, he had a house right in Santa Barbara – less than five miles from the station. 

 

Keys tapped on the other side of his monitor. Carlton glared over the edge of his screen. Spencer senior, Mr. I'll Only Be Here a Few Days a Week, a promise that had yet to pan out given how rarely the codger actually left the building, was typing away with a speed that would put a thirteen year old texter to shame. It was also getting on Carlton's nerves. When his nerves were tweaked, it tended to affect his inner censor – small and malnourished as it may be.

 

“I'm sorry, shouldn't you be holding a candlelight vigil somewhere?”

 

Henry slammed the next key with enough force that it should have shattered the keyboard. His attention shifted from his typing to glare back. “Don't.” His voice was soft – his eyebrows lifted above reddened eyes. “Don't.” There was pain in his threat – the actual words not needed. 

 

Carlton would be damned if he looked away. He didn't take well to threats, deserved or otherwise. And in this case he felt fully justified in his position. He wouldn't even apologize for his words. Spencer had no business being part of this investigation. Not when the likelihood of recovering a corpse grew with every hour. The old man's place in the station was barely less tenuous than that of his son. He wasn't a cop for cripes sake! He was a glorified micro-manager of an annoying pest. He was there to run interference and see to it that the real cops could get their work done without the smarmy buzzing of his offspring in their ears. And granted, he'd done a decent enough job of that. Until this case. Junior should never have been involved in this investigation. And given the old man's actions in the last week or so, Spencer senior knew that. And if adding another layer to his guilt was what it took to get the man out of the station and out of the way, Carlton was all for it.

 

Click clacky heels broke up the stare down of their interoffice High Noon. Whether it was O'Hara or the Chief, the addition of a female to the pit of anguish laden testosterone worked the same magic that had averted pissing matches for centuries. Granted, more often then not, it was also the thing that _caused_ them but this wasn't the time to bring up the catalystic role that the female gender had in war.

 

Both men turned towards the approaching steps, though Henry's eyes shifted left for one more frost layered glare. It was actually the Chief _and_ O'Hara and... Carlton groaned. Guster was striding across the bullpen, hands in fists at his side. At times equally as aggravating as his man-child partner, he'd been damn near unbearable working as a solo act.

 

Carlton reheated his own glare as he turned towards Henry. “Did you call him?”

 

“He didn't have to call me.” Gus broke up the argument before Henry could do more than open his mouth. 

 

Carlton caught the glance Guster gave his partner and he shot a dark look towards O'Hara – his expression schooled with the unspoken promise that they'd be discussing this later.

 

Vick brought them all back to attention with an upward tip of her chin. “I don't need to remind you how urgent it is that we track down these leads as soon as possible. Henry, Mr. Guster, I know we're beyond the point where I can ask you to stay off the case...”

 

Henry crossed his arms. “Karen, as long as my son is out there somewhere, I'm not going to stop looking for him.”

 

Gus moved to the side of the older man – his limbs stiff. “That goes for me too!”

 

The sigh of resignation wasn't the response Carlton wanted to hear from his superior, but the choice came down to arguing this out or busting a shaved headed freak and he had no question where his priorities stood on that one. 

 

“Very well. Mr. Guster, I'd like you and O'Hara to follow up on Greg Landers. Detective Lassiter, you and Mr. Spencer will take Zachary Tolk. I've got Officers Dobson and Bellamy heading to Ventura to track down Mr. Kulish.”

 

Carlton couldn't help groaning at being paired, yet again, with Spencer. However, he straightened up when Vick turned towards him.

 

“Something to add, Detective?”

 

The innocent expression had never fit him well but he plastered it on just the same. “Nope.”

 

“Good. Then get going.”

 

The groups split from the circle – heading to their desks to gather jackets, keys, and anything else they might need. 

 

As they jogged towards the parking lot, Carlton had just one order for his temporary partner.

 

“This time, I do all the talking!”


	8. The Eyes of the Damned

“Thank you, Mr. Landers, we'll be in touch if we have any more questions.” Juliet pulled her hand away from the door jam just in time to preserve her manicure as the irritated man slammed it shut. Landers had been a dead end. Not only was his alibi solid, but he had an employer who could corroborate that he'd been out of town for the last two weeks transporting office chairs to locations through most of the western states. If that wasn't enough, the weigh stations could prove, conclusively, that he and his rig had made every stop on his run.

 

“So that's it?” Gus kept step with her as they headed back to her car. She could relate to his agitation but didn't have the same freedom to indulge it. Lassiter and Mr. Spencer had one suspect at the station while Dobson and Bellamy were tracking the other one down in Ventura. They hadn't run out of leads yet. 

 

“Not by a long shot.” She pulled out her keys and hit the button on the fob. Gus slid into the car a moment before her – both of them snapping into their seat belts before she pulled away from the curb.

 

“So what do we do now?”

 

Juliet tightened her hands on the wheel.

 

“We head back to the station.” And with any luck, her partner would have gotten some answers. She saw Gus nod in her peripheral, his chin jutted slightly forward as he stared ahead. She'd seen that expression on him before. Last fall actually – after Shawn had been shot. Of all the times she would have expected him to cave in, it was when his best friend was in danger that he seemed at his strongest. She'd seen glimpses of his tenacity before. Every now and then, a spark of self-reliance, a steel determination that would have been overlooked by those who knew him less. It gave her a much deeper understanding of the friendship he shared with Shawn.

 

“We'll find him, Gus.” His eyes only widened a little as he turned towards her – her assertion met with a slowly breaking smile that abruptly folded into a cocky head tilt.

 

“I know!” Pitched high and delivered as solidly as her promise, she couldn't help but smile back.

 

There was no fist bump, but what hung between them sealed the deal just the same. They would do whatever it took – they'd break down every door – and they'd bring Shawn home.

 

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

Tiny hadn't returned.

 

His sense of time, without the activity forced on him, was shot. Anything from hours to days could have gone by since his dramatic upchucking and there would be no way to tell. Every time he passed out, another giant chunk of that reality was lost. He felt filthy and was realizing the small comfort the frozen showers had actually given him. Now, after going without, he could feel the sticky cling attaching to his body and leaving him itchy and raw where his flesh rubbed. Adding to the wallow he couldn't escape, he'd also been forced to relieve himself against the wall again – grateful for the slope that carried the trickle away from his body. Unfortunately, emptying his bladder only left him with that much less fluid in his tissues. He never had enough even when his captor was generous. Now, once more offended by his pet, the big man appeared to be denying even the most basic comforts. Including his company.

 

Shawn hated that he actually preferred it when Tiny was in the room with him. Spiders, centipedes, and others of their ilk may not be worth his limited energy to flinch at but that didn't mean he wanted them using his nose as a diving board. That there was a rancid pool nearby for them to cannonball into was not lost on him, nor did he really want to dwell on it. Still, it was better than other things he could be dwelling on and it was taking all of his mental strength to avoid that subject.

 

He was tired.

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

 

Carlton liked interrogations. He liked the room with the temperature set just a little too warm, the chair legs adjusted a little too low, and the perp strung just a little too tight. It made it all the sweeter when he broke them. The man's scalp was a shiny dome that put Henry Spencer's struggling bald spot to shame. Probably waxed – possibly even polished from the look of things. It made the swastika tattooed above his left eyebrow stand out even more, which was offset nicely by the bruise darkening on the other side. So much for resisting arrest. A little tango with good old sparky had turned the two-hundred and fifty pound gorilla into a whimpering infant.

 

Carlton cracked his knuckles and tried not to let his grin grow too wide. He'd let the thick hunk of meat simmer in the interrogation room for the last half hour. He was just about ready. 

 

A rustle on the other side of the hall peeled the grin from his face and dropped it to the floor – going so far as to step on it and grind it into the tile. Carlton pivoted until Henry Spencer's crossed arm, frown wearing judgment in a cheap suit could meet him glare for glare. 

 

“What?”

 

Henry remained in place, though his eyes narrowed. “Oh, I don't know. Just that when I came down here I'd expected to see you knee-deep in an interrogation – not cooling your heels while the guy that may have taken my son is getting comfortable on the station's dime.”

 

Vick should have kept the grouchy fossil in her office. No way, no how did the man have any business being involved – Carlton stood by that belief. They wanted to screw themselves over if this led to a trial? Just let Henry into the room with Tolk. Stubborn idiot was way too shoot first ask questions later and Carlton wasn't comfortable with the fact that the two of them were alone right now. He hadn't forgotten what a bear the man had been during the notorious “ice cream incident”, not to mention the various games with the Zodiac wannabes. Thank God that wasn't a burden Carlton had to share. Rescuing the hell spawn was top priority. Worrying about him was not. 

 

Glaring back at the curmudgeon, Carlton tugged the hem of his jacket straight.

 

“You stay out here, got it?” The finger point added the perfect level of threat to his order.

 

He didn't like the cross armed stare he got back. “Oh, I got it.”

 

Lips pressed tight, Carlton spun towards the door. He wasn't ashamed to admit he'd rather be spending his time in the company of a criminal. A criminal with a chip on his shoulder the size of an aircraft carrier. A chip that was about to get knocked to the floor and ground into the linoleum.

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

He was thirsty.

 

“In from one hose and out from another.” He giggled more than he should have at that before the coughs overtook his humor.

 

He couldn't think about being thirsty. Thinking about it made it worse and now he wasn't even able to drag himself to the bathroom sink. He'd tried – just once. The bump of his ankles over the uneven floor had sliced off his breathing for a long span of seconds – ending with a shredded whine as he'd held himself still and borne the pain as it rose and rose and rose... 

 

There was also something severely wrong with his arm. Numbness had now spread from his shoulder to halfway down his forearm. He couldn't feel the burn either, though he knew it had to be bad given how long it had stung. 

 

There had to be a way to get water. He wasn't going to die, naked, on a filthy floor just because he was too much of a... wussy... to... “Mooove – AGH!” His fingers clawed the empty air behind him as he bit down on his lip. Crap, crap CRAP! He'd heard something pop that time but had no idea which joint had cried out – they all throbbed about equally.

 

Where the hell was everybody? If someone was doing their job they would have found him by now! _He_ would have found him by now! 

 

“I'm, down, HERE!!” The longed for echo was more of a flat slap against the ceiling – the side effect of screaming another coughing fit that curled him into a pale comma. The only thing that responded to his yell was something that pattered tiny feet against the edge of the wall. His unseen friends had grown bolder as they'd gotten used to him. He was an accepted part of their environment now. How much longer before he felt them nibbling the tips of his ears? 

 

His chin rasped against the concrete as he moved his head to follow the sound of movement. The dark didn't fade just because he'd chosen to use his eyes. Black stayed black and Mini Pearl stayed hidden in the depths of it as she sniffled and scuttled his way. It was an instinctive guess at her gender. He'd always appealed to the ladies. Even the psychotic ones.

 

“Don't spose... you got any... cheese on you...?”

 

Thin air brushed his cheek – fluttering. Mini gave his cheek a once over, her tail flicking the end of his nose as she turned to find something more interesting. Ben would like her. He suddenly wondered if Gus was feeding Ben.

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

The two story Victorian had once been a beautiful house. The white paint along the trim had mostly held up, but the sea foam green across the rest of the facade had worn to patches from years of neglect. Dobson let his fingers graze his weapon before moving from the sidewalk to the patchy path leading to the deck. His eyes moved across the dark windows, all of them appearing to be covered from the inside. His fingers tightened down on his grip – one finger popping the snap. Beside him, Bellamy did the same. 

 

They walked as a pair towards the front door. The three steps up squeaked under their soles, startling a bi-colored stray cat from under the deck that streaked around the side of the structure. Dodson was first to the door with Bellamy taking a position beside him. He knocked while Bellamy leaned to the right and pressed his face against one filmy window.

 

“SBPD, could you please come to the door sir?”

 

“Dobs...” Bellamy was still mashed against the glass, his hand reaching across to pluck at Dobson's sleeve. The larger cop joined his partner and also leaned in to peer through the shade, the narrow slit allowing them a dusky sliver of the interior. Dobson rubbed his palm across his lips.

 

“Oh God...”

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

 

The tacky feeling wouldn't go away. It was hard to swallow. Mini was back and had brought Rupert Grimbly with her. Rupert was still keeping a distance though – he was either shy or unimpressed with the man mountain and his lack of treats. 

 

A delicate paw rested on the ball of his thumb. They'd never gotten this close before. He could feel the whiskers tickling in the small of his back and a shiver rippled in his belly. At another time, the idea of rodents crawling on him would have been revolting. But that was before.

 

The tickle traveled over his wrist, the tiny pointed nose jabbing at his pulse. Maybe she planned to chew through his bindings like the helpful mice in the Lion, the Bitch, and the Closet. Gus had never found that title amusing but dude, who used the term “wardrobe” anymore? 

 

Mini seemed fascinated by his wrist. Her nose was pushed far beneath the rope, her baby prickle claws resting on his arm as she... “OW!” Tiny teeth sank into flesh and held on as he jerked his body in response, forced to roll when the teeth sank deeper. “Stop it!!” 

 

Abruptly released, he heard his tiny attacker scamper around his body. Shawn had enough adrenaline left to surge back as the former friends pattered rapidly away. 

 

His body shook and he pulled his limbs as close to his body as he could before pain crippled the motion.

 

The single sob was dry – a rasp that clenched in his chest. 

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

Tolk had refused to say a word. Four hours wasn't the longest that Carlton had spent eye to eye with a tongue tied suspect but that didn't make the experience any less frustrating. Not that he let that show – not to the filth sitting across from him with that damned half a smirk.

 

He'd break this guy down. Tattoos and leather weren't what made a man tough. If anything, they were the things that displayed insecurity like a damn beacon. A real man could wear a pink shirt and plaid slacks and not hang his masculinity on the judgment of others. A real man could make another man cry like a toothing infant just by staring him down long enough.

 

Tolk stared back – his scalp shining. He stared... stared...

 

His eyelid twitched... 

 

And then all of Carlton's perceived momentum was snapped as a fist rapped against the mirrored glass at his back. He knew he'd just dropped right back to the base of the hill when Tolk smiled with both sides of his mouth. If that was Henry Spencer on the other side, missing son or not, he was getting a fist in his Adam's apple.

 

It wasn't Spencer. It was Vick. And what she said next wiped out any thought for the man in the interrogation room.

 

“I just got off the phone with Dobson. They found something.”

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

The inner walls of his throat felt as though they were gluing together every time he swallowed. Every time he tried to anyhow. His lips had cracked open again and he could taste blood when he ran his tongue across the broken flesh. 

 

Thirst and hunger cramped spikes of need through his belly. Knowing that it was all a matter of getting to his feet... even just wriggling across the floor... If he could just man up, just grit his teeth and stop whining...

 

“ _It's just a flesh wound, alright? You'll be fine; stop whining!”_

 

How long had he been alone? He didn't know. Was he still being punished or... God, had he been abandoned?

 

Snakes rustled and coiled in his belly – twisted and heaved against his ribs.

 

Panic had surged and spun him until he felt his mind whirling in an uneven circle. At times it seemed like his whole body was jack-knifing through space. There was a genie in control of his emotional rolodex – flip flopping from anger to fear to grief to black amusement. He couldn't stay on top of what he was feeling moment to moment and never had he missed his chocolate barometer more than he did now. He needed Gus, but was so glad Gus wasn't there at the same time. That was, at least, one emotion he knew was real.

 

-~-~-

 

 

Henry couldn't have been kept away from the house even with a loaded weapon aimed at his head. And with his reinstatement dangled like a free freaking pass, Carlton hadn't been able to deny him an all access to the horror show. However, Lassiter had made certain that Guster remained at that station in spite of the younger man's newly discovered stones. Whatever ill-tended garden of nerves the young man had harvested his bravado from, it wasn't enough to sustain him through what waited on the other side of that door. 

 

Carlton took point, with O'Hara and Spencer flanking him. Fanning out at their backs were a good baker's dozen of uniformed officers and a smaller contingent of CSU. 

 

The cursory look by Dobson and Bellamy had only been enough to ensure the house was empty of life. They'd backed out as quickly as they'd been able to after clearing every room and had established a perimeter while waiting for backup. Lassiter didn't know which one of them had vomited in the grass next to the deck, but he was glad the officer had held it long enough to avoid contaminating the primary scene. 

 

The boards sagged and creaked beneath his weight as he pressed his heel down on that first step. Even from several feet away he could smell the stench creeping out through the open door. His hand drifted towards his pocket where he'd stashed a small container of Vicks. Much as he wanted to avoid any jeering that might go along with its usage, it would be nothing compared to the humiliation that he'd feel if he upchucked across the threshold.

 

Smearing a dot of menthol beneath each nostril, he took the last few steps towards the crack of darkness. 

 

-~-~-

 

 

“Three-in-the-theater-two-at-the-park-six-at-the-japadog-stand-four... th-th-three... three...” He rolled his face against the floor and choked on another round of coughs. His runaway whispers tore at his throat but not speaking was worse. When he fell asleep he dreamed of dark caverns and his body sunk deep in the earth. When he woke to find himself staring at that reality, he recited his series of memories; how many hats, how many blue shirts, how many girls in lines he'd waited in. Hearing his own voice was the only defense left to him to battle the jittery panic that came with hearing nothing – seeing nothing. And with the spreading numbness, he was beginning to feel nothing as well. Sensory deprivation. The term had been a joke up until now – depraved senses – that one had even made Gus chuckle. He wished it could be funny now. 

 

The door squeaked.

 

The sudden heart hammer in his chest was joined by a sting in his eyes. Thank God! Thank God, oh thank God!

 

He tried to rasp a greeting but opening his mouth only split the cracks in his lips. Rather than waste speech on welcome, he switched to a plea for his most desperate need.

 

“V-voda... voda... b-b-bud'laska...”

 

The steps shifted at the top of the stairs. Shawn tried to increase his volume but the roaring ants in his throat threatened a scorching coughing fit so he kept his begging to a whisper. 

 

“Voda... voda... voda...”

 

More rustling, and then the steps finally moved to the stairs. Barefoot step after barefoot step descended the stone staircase. Shawn stopped his pleas to listen as the larger man shuffled around the far side of the table. When he licked his lips, he winced at the dry touch of his tongue on broken skin.

 

The next sound he heard chilled him – the heavy chop of metal against something hard that squeaked like ceramic. He found he wasn't able to speak as the sound continued – repetitive bites of the blade through bone – splitting some in a wrenching tear of splinters – tendons and gristle twisted from joints with a thick pop. A darker shape against the black hung over the edge of the table – jiggling with every tearing rip – every cut. Perfect digits curled inward – beseeching – tipped in something wet that gleamed in the bare light. Shawn closed his eyes and choked back the burn bubbling up his throat. The heat traveled on to the rim of his eyes, but there was no moisture left for his anguish.

 

For the first time he realized he could die, surrounded by this twisted foulness. Worse still, the knowledge that, no matter how hard he'd wished for it – prayed for it – they were never going to find him.

 

-~-~-

 

 

There had been no attempt at hiding the bodies. But then, why would there be? This far outside of town, the closest neighbors were nearly fifty yards away. It explained why nobody had called to complain about unusual smells. 

 

Carlton stopped just outside the living room. Behind him he could hear the steps of the other officers, the short, sharp breaths, the sounds that varied from disgust to shock. At his right shoulder, Henry had come to a stop. His hand brushed across his lips – partially muffling his whisper. “Dear God...”

 

Three people sat, side by side, on an ancient couch. Obviously they'd been placed there postmortem. There wasn't a great deal of blood near the bodies so it was also obvious that they'd also been elsewhere when they'd been eviscerated. 

 

Shuddering away his revulsion, Carlton stuck his emotions in a handy box and set it on a high shelf before moving forward. He hoped the others were doing the same because there just wasn't time to coddle anyone through a break down.

 

Flies clouded around the forms – the hum of hundreds of vibrating insects beating against his temples. Fat, overfed bodies lifted from the gutted corpses when Carlton waved his hand to shoo them away. Other feeders, though, remained right where they were. Maggots wreathed in the open cavities. Beetles crawled through rotting tissue while, inches away, tiny hover flies zigged and stopped – standing in place for seconds at a time before moving to the next patch of air space. 

 

Standing back from the couch, Carlton allowed the crime scene techs to take his place. O'Hara was still nearby. She had one hand over her mouth and her face was waxy, but otherwise she seemed to be holding it together. Still, the urge remained to send her from the room. It had been months since she'd returned from her leave of absence but that didn't mean she was fully recovered. He was more than prepared to order her away with addendum that he didn't need her horking on the corpses. And it was easier on them both to piss her off rather than embarrass her by, once more, bringing up any residual frailty from the Yin case.

 

“These corpses are at least three weeks old, maybe older.” Shared one of the CSU guys, a young man who had no business looking so collected as he hunched over one of the bodies. 

 

Carlton had figured at least that much given the amount of decay. Turning, he spotted Henry wandering into the adjoining room. Leaving the man alone for the moment, glad that he wasn't hovering any longer, he snapped his fingers at a couple of CSU.

 

“We've got three more bodies upstairs; let's go.” He held up his hand as O'Hara made to follow him. He knew what waited up there. She didn't need to see it. Not yet. “See if you can keep an eye on Henry for a few minutes. I don't like the look on his face.” He rarely liked the look on Henry's face. But whatever port as they said. 

 

He knew Juliet wasn't buying it, but she only gave him a long, somewhat judgmental look, before pivoting to follow after the older man.

 

And that left Carlton to face the second floor. 

 

Where usually he reached to touch his weapon for that dose of reassurance, this time his fingers dropped to his pocket – tracing over the container of menthol. 

 

His foot was on the first stair when he heard the shout at his back. O'Hara ran back into the room, breathing hard.

 

“Lassiter! We've got something!”

 

-~-~-

 

 

 

“Prokydatysia vysche.”

 

The muddy command barely made it through the fuzziness of his hearing. Barely any difference whether his eyes were open or not, but Tiny had noticed that he'd fallen asleep. The man was beside him, still standing. Shawn felt something cool and wet pat down on his cheek and couldn't stop himself from scratching out a whine. “Voda...” Not even a whisper – he mouthed the word without the strength to speak it.

 

Tiny knelt beside him and slowly began to stroke his hair.

 

“Ni. Yzha, tak?”

 

Shawn managed a head shake and coughed – mustering his voice. “Voda...”

 

The petting stopped. Shawn turned his face to the floor and felt the texture of grit press into his jaw. He sucked in a breath a sniffed while Tiny settled down on his knees. He heard the sound of a plastic cap twisting against threads. He coughed again and tightened his teeth together through another swell of pain. 

 

He heard the noisy gulp of liquid being swallowed – the deep breath of appreciation. He swore he could smell the clean water over the stink around him as Tiny chugged at the bottle again. 

 

“Voda... please...”

 

A few more drops hit his cheek, one of them rolling to the corner of his mouth and soaking into the crease of his lip. His tongue tried to catch it but it was already gone. Dry sobbing rated right up there with dry heaving – painful and something he couldn't fight as the mouth of the bottle was brushed against his lips – water moistening against his lower lip – and then pulled back just as his head rose for that first desperate sip.

 

Fingers rubbed the side of his cheek as though to catch tears that couldn't be shed. Imagining a different touch, Shawn leaned against the caress. It was getting easier to pretend.

 

“Dobre.” Tiny patted his cheek – a gentle touch of approval. His hand pulled away for a moment, the sound of ripping following soon after. When his fingers returned, they held a shred of flesh pinched between them.

 

“Yhza.”

 

Flinching back from the offering, Shawn pinched his lips tight and shook his head. 

 

Water sloshed in the bottle as it was shook. Tiny grunted, and then unscrewed the cap once more. He held the liquid close to Shawn's lips.

 

“Voda?”

 

Choking out non words, Shawn tried to scoot closer, only to have the bottle drawn back an equal amount. Tiny exchanged the bottle for the strip of flesh.

 

“Yhza!”

 

Nothing more was said. Nothing more needed to be.

 

Shawn pushed his face against the floor – shuddering. His stomach was a void – sick with cramps. One by one, the lights inside were going out. He could feel them as they vanished by the expanding numbness.

 

The meat was still being held out to him – nearly brushing his lips.

 

The water was so close.

 

He didn't want to die like this.

 

Walling off the last of his soul, Shawn put his mind in a memory of sunlight. And with fingers returning to his hair, he did what he had to do.

 

 

-~-~-

 

It was a trapdoor. 

 

It had taken Henry all of five minutes to find it in the back corner of the root cellar off the kitchen. Saving up recriminations against Dobson and Bellamy's sloppy police work for a later time, Carlton pushed to the head of the clustered bodies and pulled his weapon. CSU had been herded from the scene the moment they'd located an unsecured room. Ideally, Henry would be outside with them. However, prior experience drilled the lesson home of that impossibility, so the best that could be done was to tuck him between a couple of armed officers.

 

The square door hadn't been in plain sight – but it hadn't really been hidden either. Two rope loops on the nearest corners allowed it to be hefted from its slot. Underneath was an angled ladder dropping down into darkness.

 

Carlton met the eyes of his team. Worst case scenario. He hated the term almost as much as experiencing it. The space was narrow. They could only descend one at a time. And even with flashlights, the visibility was barely above zero. And if an armed suspect awaited them below...

 

Checking his weapon once more, Carlton sat down at the edge of the hole. Then, sucking in a deep breath, he started down the ladder.


	9. Cast Into Outer Darkness

There hadn't been enough water in the bottle to do more than wet his mouth. He begged for more – would have screamed for more if his voice were capable of it. But he was ignored.

 

What he'd done for those few drips...

 

Tiny stood and shuffled to the other end of his body. Shawn tensed – knowing what was coming next. It still wasn't enough to steel him against the tear of agony as he was heaved from the floor.

 

Stutters of breath barely made it through his teeth as he was allowed to drop onto the hook; his body swung a little, side to side. Acid flooded his throat as he was inverted and he peeled his lips away from his teeth at the scald. Only a minute or two – maybe just a few seconds and Tiny would let him down again. He just had to wait it out.

 

But Tiny wasn't muttering over the scale. He wasn't pinching skin between his fingers. He was walking away – towards the table. Upside down and with a view barely lit, Shawn couldn't make out what the man lifted from the rough surface. Then, seconds later, the glow was blocked as Tiny came back.

 

Now he felt the touch – though not the two fingers plucking at his side that he's expected. Instead, his belly jumped as a palm flattened over it. Even with the dark he still closed his eyes – immediately terrified by the shift from the regular. He heard himself whispering in both foreign and English, words mashed together as he begged against whatever was about to happen.

 

And then his words stopped in a choke as metal sliced across his gut.

 

He froze as warm drops spattered down his chest – struck the underside of his chin. He shrank into himself as he waited for the loops of entrails to spiral down – a sensation that would be one of the last ones felt before...

 

_Seth..._

 

“ _Please don't – not any more, please!”_

 

He only knew he'd been holding his breath when he gasped for more – keening as a fresh gash opened beneath the first. Then oxygen evaporated again as his body shook under a motion of sawing. There was too much pain to make any sense of himself. Blood shed down his body – fleeting warmth before it was followed by cold so deep he shuddered. But for his one cry, he hadn't made a sound. He couldn't make a sound.

 

One last jerk, and Tiny stepped away again.

 

Shawn's view spun sickly – color and light invading where they couldn't possibly exist.

 

He heard the clunk of metal – so familiar now. The glow increased the tiniest bit – real light against the false as a tiny fire leapt bright with excited heat.

 

And then, the sizzling hiss.

 

He knew what was happening – but he couldn't accept it. Not even after all he'd gone though – all he'd seen. All he'd done. Not now. _Please_...

 

He let the unreal light fill his mind as he tuned out for a time. His ears heard activity – a chair sliding back – the scrape of a knife – but he wasn't truly present for it. He thought of Gus though he couldn't immediately see his face. He heard his laugh though and felt warmth soothe back into his chest at the memory of that giddy sound.

 

Then the chair scraped again and all he could hear was the approaching slap of feet.

 

“Mm... dobre! Duzhe smachno!”

 

The foot steps came to a rest next to his body. 

 

_No..._

 

The hands lifted up and a sharp edge glided across his abdomen – shedding more wetness down his chest.

 

All that time to make his peace with this. All those hours, alone, to spin out his wishes, his hopes to the open air... maybe even to that giant dude in sandals that Gus insisted looked nothing at all like Billy Gibbons. If there was ever a time he needed a forgiving priest and a private confessional closet it was now. If only he-

 

Shawn jerked as the blade sank deep into his gut. Darkness was collapsing at the edges of his eyes – the reddish glow fading to gray. He felt a spasm as his captor adjusted his hold – his fingers slipping on blood drenched skin. And he started to cut.

 

A hollow rasp spooled from his throat. He couldn't scream. His last seconds of life and he couldn't mark the moment with anything but a gaping mouth.

 

Enter the world laughing and exit without even the breath to say goodbye.

 

It wasn't fair. 

 

It wasn't f...

 

~-~-~

 

 

Four lights made white cut-outs through the crowding dark. The hard contrast caused eyes to squint and water as the group edged into the pit. The ladder had dropped them down ten feet into a narrow tunnel – concrete on all sides pitted and moist. Carlton figured that it was some form of bunker from back in the day when the threat of nuclear immolation was still very real. Now, though, instead of being a safe house from danger, this Cold War artifact was actually putting all of their lives at risk.

 

Henry breathed just behind Carlton's left shoulder. The man wasn't armed, thank God, but that didn't bring a huge amount of comfort given his history. Carlton tightened his hand around his weapon in memory of the last time they'd been on a Spencer recovery mission.

 

The floor angled downward for the next fifteen feet – the four of them moving single file. O'Hara was trapped behind Henry, an added danger with her weapon unable to readily assist if needed. McNab brought up the rear of their group and kept an eye on their six. The sound of their breathing was loud within the tiny space. It was getting colder too. The day's high might be in the eighties but sunk below the earth, they'd be lucky to hit above fifty.

 

They traveled another six feet when Carlton registered the smell. Behind him, O'Hara made a small noise of disgust. He couldn't blame her – it was rank.

 

“Everybody, stay sharp.” They knew to be on their guard, but the order wasn't so much a reminder as a reassurance. They were together in this – they had each other's backs.

 

Soon, the floor began to level off. Just ahead, the beam of Carlton's flashlight reflected off of something that glinted.

 

It was the dull, iron knob of a door.

 

~-~-~

 

Now he could feel it. An unnatural moist slap of something sliding outside his body. He felt hollow – oddly weightless in his core.

 

But there was pain too.

 

He wanted it to end. He had stopped fighting – stopped trying to prolong each breath – each second. It was too late now.

 

Now, though... now when he had nothing left to offer; nobody to offer it to, his speech returned to him. But all that remained was the noise of a dying animal – the sound of drowning made piercing and high in his agony. There would be no last rites, no apologies, no wishes.

 

His body jerked once, then again. More drops rained down – some falling to strike his chin – his cheeks. Others rolled down his chest – deviating along his neck and into his hair. The dripped from the tips of his clumped follicles to puddle beneath him.

 

He choked through his next gasp, tears trailing up into his scalp as his body ignored his mind and continued to suck at every thread of oxygen offered it. Tiny grunted – a hard jerk and a blast of fire that shot to every nerve ending in Shawn's body – and he stepped back.

 

And at the top of the stairs, the door slammed open.

 

~-~-~

 

 

Long seconds as his eyes adjusted to the dark cavern of space. The stink was overwhelming now – boiling up the short flight of stairs and collapsing over them as though it had a physical weight.

 

Something moved somewhere below.

 

Carlton jerked his light towards the sound. The naked back of a large man was lit from the waist down by the beam.

 

The man turned towards them, and they could see what his body had been blocking.

 

Henry made a sound – a strangled retching sob that was cut off as he rushed for the figure. Carlton barely managed a one armed snag – his flashlight sent pinwheeling down the concrete stairs as he lodged his elbow across Spencer's throat. The man in his grip twisted and Carlton nearly lost his hold when McNab lunged forward and wrapped both arms around Henry, hauling him back away from the door.

 

Below them, the flashlight had caught up against the wall. The hard beam sliced through the shadows and lit on the face of the man hanging there – eyes wide and fixed. Carlton was just turning back to their perp when a flicker brought his attention slinging back.

 

The eyes blinked.

 

Spencer was still alive.

 

~-~-~

 

 

The large man stumbled away from his victim as the cops stormed the room. Twice he was ordered to drop the dripping blade only to stare back at them with his eyes squinted and confused. Carlton felt no pleasure this time in tasing down a stubborn perp – not with the frantic parent at his back struggling to soothe both himself and his son.

 

He had to borrow O'Hara's handcuffs in order to extend his own just get the man's arms behind his back. Ordering Buzz to radio for paramedics, he left the man in the care of the young officer as he turned back to the Spencers.

 

Shawn was gasping hard – nearly hyperventilating. O'Hara had approached the two men and had one hand clamped over her mouth while the other rubbed Spencer's arm. Meanwhile, his father had his son's face cupped in his hands. Neither one of them looked at the mess above their heads.

 

“McNab!” Slapping the officer in the arm, Carlton hurried to the table – sweeping the plate and fork from the surface before the two of them dragged it to the wall. Henry and Juliet saw what they had planned and shifted to fit their arms beneath Shawn's shoulders.

 

“I'm sorry kid,” Henry whispered just before they heaved him upward. The grating scream made them all flinch as the table was slid into place beneath the injured man's body. Able to release him now, Henry reached up to free his son from the hook, but it was too high. Stepping in, Buzz gently worked the chain off the hook, and then they all got hand holds as they, once more, had to lift the gasping form – taking the opportunity to cut the ropes from his wrists before laying him flat. Everything they did to help him only hurt him – the rotation of his damaged right arm leading him to arch his back. Carlton pressed his hand against the straining body until it started to relax once more.

 

“Dad?”

 

The detective flicked his eyes towards Henry as the older man bent over his son. The panic was still there but so far Henry was keeping it together. If he could just keep Shawn distracted, Carlton could do what needed to be done.

 

“Dammit, we need more light in here!” He wanted to wait for paramedics but he honestly didn't know if there was time. Leaving Henry to deal with his son's emotions, O'Hara joined her partner to hover over the young man's abdomen while McNab returned to guarding their perp.

 

“God...” He'd seen injuries, some fatal, since graduating from the academy. But this was a lot more Wes Craven than he was prepared to manage on his first stint as a battlefield surgeon. The back of his hand rubbed at the sweat over his lips. A glance around himself and he spotted the hose coiled against the far wall. Snapping fingers directed his shell-shocked partner to the task of fetching it – her feet almost slipping as she started partway back before remembering to turn on the water pressure.

 

Crimping the end in one hand, she dragged it towards Carlton and allowed a thin stream out so he could rinse off his hands. Wishing for even a cheap container of Purell, he dug a fresh pair of gloves from his slacks – noticing O'Hara doing the same.

 

His eyes rose again – this time catching Henry. The older man breathed out hard, then nodded and placed his hands on Shawn's chest.

 

Lassiter licked his lips, grimaced, and then called on the spirit of Hawkeye Pierce as he held his cupped hands under the spout of the hose. The water was cold but there was nothing he could really do about that. Then, carefully, he started to rinse the exposed tissue. Shawn didn't move other than to push his heel against the table.

 

There was only a small amount of grit on the soft, pink mass. The water had taken care of the tackiness that had begun to form on the organ, allowing Carlton to cradle the delicate tissue and gently rest it across the open cavity from where it had been evacuated. Taking a second to peer at his partner, Carlton noted that while her eyes were directed towards Spencer's face, her hands had remained on the tensed thighs.

 

Grateful just to have managed this much without the thrashing he'd pictured in his head, Lassiter prepared to release his grip when he looked down. Blood. A lot of blood.

 

“Crap!” Easing aside a loop of gut, wincing at the warmth of it, he aimed his flashlight into the opening.

 

Juliet turned her face to his in time to see it fade even paler. Then, earning a shocked shout, he darted his hand inside and clamped his fingers around the severed artery. At the violent invasion, Shawn jerked his body and screeched – challenging them all to keep him down as he began to fulfill the fears Carlton had hoped he'd dodged.

 

Henry and O'Hara both held tight – the latter biting into her lip and wiping her cheek against her shoulder. Henry looked... tortured... pressing down on his son and likely causing more pain but having no choice.

 

Carlton kept his hand in place and tried not to hear the cries he was currently responsible for.

 

But more than anything else, employing a practice that was rustier than his brief stint at ice skating, he sent up a fervent prayer. He prayed the paramedics would arrive soon. He prayed his fingers didn't slip from their tenuous hold. And, finally, he prayed that Henry Spencer didn't have to watch his son bleed to death seconds after thinking they'd actually saved his life.

 


	10. What Do You Mean it's Only the Beginning?

“Dad...?”

 

Light spun – everything whipped in a vicious blur – hyper fast motion that spun him in circles.

 

What was wrong with his body?

 

He didn't believe it was over. Couldn't. It was another hallucination. All he had was Tiny and the rats. Secret of NIMH. Too many secrets. He had to keep secrets.

 

“Prokydatysia vysche!!”

 

He jerked and shook his head. Eyes were inches from his own but he couldn't shrink back.

 

“Yzha! Yzha!”

 

“No! No! Steeh!”

 

Tiny gripped the sides of his jaw – gripped his arms – his legs.

 

“Shawn!”

 

The table started to vibrate beneath him. Tiny was screaming at him as he dug his hands inside his body.

 

“McNab, call the bus again, they need to get their asses down here now!”

 

Not here, not here, not here...

 

Dad! He could smell the fish stink that never completely left his hands.

 

Pain knotted through his belly – Tiny was ripping out his insides. No one had come for him and the only things he smelled were his organs tearing open.

 

“Shawn, we're right here, kid. Stay awake.”

 

There were spiders on him – he could feel them crawling under his skin – they were all over him and he couldn't shake them off because Tiny was forcing him down on the table – cutting him open to eat him raw and he couldn't escape it! He was being eaten alive!

 

“No! Nononono...” He clawed at the monster feeding on him – twisted when it grabbed at his wrists – bit down when a hand came close to his face, his teeth sinking deep enough to taste blood.

 

“Shawn!”

 

“Spencer, calm dow- SHIT!”

 

More pain – impossibly more! It seared in waves from his center out and he panted and thrashed in new found defiance. He would not die this way!

 

He could hear the smack of chewing – his flesh sating the monster – raw meat and streaks of maroon drizzling between rotted teeth. He sobbed and lurched his head around.

 

“Mom!” She was here but not here. She had to be here because she knew he could save her.

 

“Mom! I want mom... I want my mom...” His voice shredded off into tears. Mom couldn't save him. Mom was driving a car filled with Pinkberry cups over the Brooklyn bridge. The bridge was falling into a pool of tapioca.

 

“Shawn, I'm here... I've got you...”

 

He was all alone.

 

~-~-~

 

 

His fingers ached from pinching down on the artery. Small and slippery and surprisingly warm – almost hot. He swore he could just about feel the pumping pressure of blood against his fingertips – the light thump as each heart beat surged the trapped fluid towards an easy escape. Already the exposed intestine was losing color – turning from the initial bubblegum pink to a dirty reddish gray.

 

Henry kept his eyes on his son's face. He didn't look up after Carlton's initial grab at the severed artery – he barely twitched as fresh officers arrived to lead a, now docile, Oz Kulish from the sub basement. He only focused on the slowly blinking eyes – the quickly paling skin. Shawn had stopped fighting them now – both a good and bad development. At least he wasn't opening his wound any wider.

 

Carlton eased a loop of intestine away from his pinching fingers. The slippery mass wouldn't stay put, though, and continued to invade on the small bit of territory he'd claimed.

 

He really hoped he didn't puke until he could find the privacy of... well, anywhere not occupied by an eviscerated Spencer. God, even thinking it had his gag reflex jumping. He wondered how his partner was faring with all this. A glance across at her face and the sweat running down green blushed cheeks answered that pretty solidly.

 

New commotion at the top of the stairs brought the foot dragging paramedics, finally, and fresh relief for Carlton who was pretty sure his cramping fingers didn't have more than a few seconds of pinch left in them. He wasn't his Aunt Bertie after all.

 

The arrivals also brought light with them, chasing shadows from previously hidden horrors on both the man on the table as well as the area he'd called home for nearly two weeks. Leatherface could learn a thing of two from Kulish.

 

Paramedic number one, Bill, according to his name tag, hovered over the exposed viscera while his buddies got to work with the oxygen and portable saline drip.

 

“How long has he been in unresponsive?”

 

“Can one of you...?”

 

“Sir, can you say your name?”

 

“Do you have a clamp handy...?”

 

“Does he have any allergies?”

 

“Maybe just some damned duct tape...?”

 

“His color isn't good.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Does he have heart problems?”

 

“Look, my hand is...”

 

“We need to move him, now!”

 

Question and commentary juggled between the medics until that final, long overdue and ridiculously obvious pronouncement. But none of them answered Carlton's single request. That may have been because of the steady interruptions – the med-speak – worse than trying to talk over a group of teenagers giggling about a Bieber concert. Or it might be because he didn't have a hand free to draw his weapon.

 

“Sir, I'm going to need you to keep a hold on that artery for a little bit longer, okay?”

 

Oh so they had heard him and, wait, what?

 

“Are you kidding me? What, you don't have a clamp or something in that goodie bag of yours?”

 

Bill, good old Bill, shook his head as he began draping the exposed organ with a sort of moistened gauze – even across Carlton's hand that was buried nearly to the elbow in Shawn's gut.

 

“There's nothing we can do for him here other than get him out as quickly as possible. Are there any other exits from here other than the one we came through?”

 

He shook his head. A sweep of the rooms by a couple of officers shortly after they'd contained Kulish had confirmed that there was only one way out. Carlton didn't need to be told how difficult this was going to be. And for Shawn; dangerous and possibly even fatal.

 

Bill was still focused on him though, his expression one shade away from demanding.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

~-~-~

 

Carlton had been fully prepared to answer with a solid “damn sure”. However, they'd almost missed the trapdoor earlier, and Carlton hadn't had an opportunity to look clear the subbasement personally. They couldn't get Shawn out through the tunnel – not with that ladder waiting for them at the end. They'd have to wait for a surgeon to arrive and clamp the artery. Shawn didn't have time for that.

 

So he sent four officers, equipped with high powered flashlights, to scour the rooms one more time.

 

It took them about ten minutes to find the second door, hidden behind an upright freezer in the second room. After unplugging the unit and muscling it aside, they found a cheap wooden door with a small hole where the knob would usually be. Beyond it was another long hallway – this one sloping gradually upward. The officers returned with the news that it opened up into dilapidated shed about thirty feet into the woods behind the house.

 

Carlton nodded to Bill the moment his officers returned.

 

“Tell me what you need me to do.”

 

~-~-~

 

 

For the second time the gurney jostled as it scraped against the tunnel wall. Carlton was more than capable of keeping his head during tense moments, but never had someone's existence been so literally in his hands – and so close to being lost from a single slip.

 

“Are you kidding me!?” Kneeling on the thin mattress above Spencer's body with an open gut between his thighs was enough of a reason to take up the hard drugs without Poncho and Lefty cocking up the rescue. Thank God good old Bill saw what was happening and promptly kicked Butterfingers off the line and took over as lead – having to flatten his body against the wall as he scraped alongside the gurney. A quick change of hands and the train was settled back on the rails and resuming its charge towards the patch of light at the end.

 

~-~-~

 

It was debatable, he pondered, that the day his wife asked him for a divorce was the worst day of his life. This, naturally, led him to wonder why people always insisted on asking that question during a moment of crisis. Like knowing someone else's worst day gave them something to categorize their own periods of hell. Like it even mattered. Better to face reality and accept that some days sucked a pair of hairy bull testicles and some days only sucked the tail. Thank you Sheriff Hank for that always appropriate colloquialism.

 

Passing Spencer off to the hospital staff had been no easy feat. Unable to dismount from the gurney until they'd raced them into a curtained off corner of the ER, he'd had to play a dicey game of hot potato with one of the resident surgeons who'd been standing by with a clamp and a staff of Eagle scouts in scrubs.

 

The moment his fingers had released the artery, doused in a fresh gush of thickened blood, the surgeon had elbowed him away and plunged his hand into the cavity.

 

Carlton had been ignored from that point on as all attention had locked onto the stricken player at the center of their huddle.

 

He'd been rubbing his fingers together as he'd wandered back towards the waiting room. He'd been surprised at how hard it had been to actually let go of the artery – his fingers having locked down – the pain of gripping so tightly faded to a low burn.

 

They tingled now, though, as he moved along the hallway. The coating of fluid was slippery and thick – though exposed to air, it began to turn gummy, then tacky. He knew he was leaving a tiny trail of drops as he went along. He really didn't give a flying damn.

 

He spotted his partner first. Henry and Guster were holding the nurse's station hostage so, for a few seconds, he was able to stare at O'Hara and allow her to read everything in his moment of awareness. He hadn't meant to share – but he wasn't capable of a lie. Not even to protect his dignity and her heart.

 

Then he was spotted by Heckle and Jackal and the hammering pulse of questions began. At one point, he held up his hands to tone down the riot. The interrogation stopped completely. He hadn't realized exactly how much blood had coated his hands... his wrists... his left arm up to his elbow. He stared at it as well, noticing that the color had started to go a deep maroon.

 

A hand touched his shoulder. O'Hara. She'd said something.

 

“What?”

 

“I said, let's get you to a restroom to wash up. Henry and Gus are going to stay here and wait for the doctor.”

 

He looked for his audience but they'd already wandered back towards the cluster of chairs and other warm bodies exhibiting various degrees of bored anxiety.

 

O'Hara kept her hand on his arm the whole trip to the restroom – like he was a nervous colt ready to rear away if given the chance. He wasn't a fading lily, dammit! Still, it didn't stop her from entering the bathroom with him and flashing her badge at the two other men occupying it – one of them still in mid stream as he leaned over a urinal. Likely it was the sight of gore bathed limbs more than the petite detective on a power trip that sent the gawkers skittering from the room without even pausing to wash.

 

Warm water helped him forget the embarrassment of his partner playing nurse for him. Sudden images of her decked out in white, low-cut leather and sporting Little Miss Naughty come hither eyes with a stethoscope vanishing between her cleavage was the last thing he wanted, ever, to have pop into his traitorous brain. Bad enough he'd seen her soaped up and naked and all too perky during that whole Thornburg debacle; his bachelor’s libido did not need the perv ammunition of his lovely blonde counterpart asking him to strip down so she could give him a thorough exam.

 

“Carlton?”

 

“What!”

 

Okay, a little defensive there, bring it down a notch, big guy.

 

“I was just... are you okay? Your face is red...”

 

A shudder that was three parts nausea and one part craze-induced raunchiness mixed in his belly and activated the muscles that squeezed his gut into a tight, hard, rock.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

“Are you?”

 

He scrubbed more blood from his arm – feeling the re-hydrated gooeyness collect under his nails.

 

“Other than the fact that I had to ride Spencer's ass all the way to the hospital...”

 

That stopped him the second it was out of his mouth. As if he wasn't already trying to bleach out one embarrassing mental image – good God...

 

“I did _not_ just say that.”

 

O'Hara was discreet enough not to argue the statement. He must really look like hell if she was letting him off this easy.

 

The rest of the blood washed away in a sudsy pink froth. Not that he could tell that the moment his eyes closed. He still felt the skim of that dark red glove against his flesh. How could he think he'd gotten it all when there was still the stink of it in his nose with every breath?

 

The memory of it spurting over his skin as Spencer clawed his arms...

 

“ _Mom... I want my mom...”_

 

Hearing Spencer beg for his mother. That had been just a little too much to take. Up until that point he'd still been the rock solid head detective with the pair of brass ones in his jockeys. That guy who didn't flinch at gunfire or weep at a funeral.

 

But every guy has a breaking point, he supposed. Too many doses if hell in its varied forms. The cries for an absent parent had made the tiny and easily hidden cracks wider. And with that barrier falling away, the rest had crumbled fast under the hits that had followed.

 

He was glad for the closeness of his partner now. He'd seen her at her worst and held her through her terror. In that way, though it wasn't exactly the same brand of support, she could be at his side for this.

 

Because, finally, at the memory of warm and slippery softness pressed against his wrist, he leaned over the sink and heaved.


	11. That's What Little Boys are Made Of

Thirst.

 

Floating in a bucket in and ocean of brown rust. His mouth puckered and dry – aching for the water beneath the rotted flotsam. He couldn't turn his head towards the wet that was so close.

 

Shivers rode the rails up and down his arms. He felt a clench in his belly and the pain that followed froze his mouth wide.

 

He remembered that he'd been somewhere dark, somewhere cold. It wasn't dark any longer but he couldn't get the ice off his skin. He tried to scrape at it but his hands were grabbed and pushed down. He wanted to fight but there was a flood of bright orange bubbling through him – his veins were putting down roots and he could feel himself growing, lifting up high in the air and swinging overhead.

 

He saw a flock of gulls and chased them towards the sky.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

He hadn't even made it to the station. Apparently, five minutes into the drive, Kulish had started trembling. The officers with him hadn't thought much of it – perps did everything from pissing themselves to bashing themselves bloody against the windows, so a little shiver hadn't even brought up their eyebrows.

 

But then he'd started to convulse.

 

Carlton hadn't gotten word that booking had been postponed until after Kulish had been brought to the hospital. The two officers that had brought him in had been ordered to stick by his side even if they had to put on scrubs and start passing instruments. Henry, damn him for the bad habits he'd passed on to his son, had been hovering close enough to pick up the majority of the conversation. Barely time to clip the phone back to his belt before the man decided to go all eye for an eye. An unarmed Henry was no less of a threat that if he'd been packing, Carlton had been fairly well convinced that he'd intended to rip Kulish open by hand if it came to that.

 

One set of arms wasn't enough by half, it had taken the combined force of Carlton, Buzz, and three hospital security to drag Henry away from the ER once he'd hooked his gnarled fingers around the doorjam. The staff had wanted him gone – out of the hospital and off the grounds. Carlton had found himself fighting what normally was a black and white issue. Safer for both parties if Henry left, but there would have been more than just the cost of a night in jail for the crazed father. It had been O'Hara that had actually made the choice for them. With her hand on his arm, she'd managed a feat that five men had struggled with. Almost too cliché' to believe if Carlton hadn't witnessed for himself, a few words from the young woman and the insanity had shivered out of the old man.

 

Carlton had eased relations with the staff by placing himself and O'Hara in charge of Henry before the three of them had returned to the waiting room.

 

Twiddling his thumbs and wearing down the coating on the linoleum had barely made a dent in his anxiety. A half hour into his impromptu shift as Henry's warden and he'd been more than ready to relocate to the observation room where their perp was living the high life.

 

Some time later, his lack of clock watching placing it between five minutes and three hours, O'Hara had suggested coffee and maybe something with carbs and Carlton had gone for the vending machine without waiting for further details.

 

The detour up one floor and down a hall hadn't been thought through – just acted upon. There hadn't been a need to show his badge to the officers at the door to make it inside the room – Buzz had even managed a nod, though the ever-present smile hadn't been on his face in days.

 

Kulish was unconscious. Carlton still believed that the man was setting the groundwork for an insanity plea; an unneeded embellishment once the jury saw photos of the jigsaw puzzle pieces that had once been human beings scattered throughout that hell pit.

 

Shackles around both ankles, cuffs around both wrists, they weren't taking any chances with the amateur Lector. If the mask had been available, Carlton would have seen to it that the man's teeth would have been restrained as well.

 

Under the fluorescent light, the skin not covered by a blanket was pale... grayish. It could have been dirt, though the nurses would have washed him before putting him in the bed. At least, he assumed they would have. Of course, banging around down in that pit like a mole, it could be bruising as well.

 

Behind him, the door opened and a doctor entered with two assistants. The raised eyebrow from the doctor indicated that he hadn't expected a guest. “Can I help you?”

 

A show of his badge removed the suspicion though it couldn't do much for the attitude. Carlton stepped back as the other three moved to the bed. The two assistants maintained a two foot neutral zone between themselves and their patient until the doctor snapped at them to move their asses or send in some candy-stripers instead.

 

“What's wrong with him?” Carlton realized how quickly he'd been dismissed when the doctor squinted back at him and frowned.

 

“You may have noticed that I've only just begun my exam so how about flat-footing it back to the waiting room until I'm done?”

 

Short changed on the high that usually came with arresting a felon in action, Carlton now found he was fighting a murderous act himself. He went as far as to raise one hand, half curled as though to latch on to the man's collar preemptive to slamming him into the wall before he tempered down his temper and pivoted to the door. He couldn't do anything, though, about the twitch in his eyelid.

 

Outside the room, he took a second to rub his hands over his face before remembering the two officers bracketing the door. Peering from behind his fingers, he saw that both of them were staring straight ahead. Damn straight. Dropping his hands, he quickly headed back down the hall towards the elevators.

 

He hadn't even reached them before the door slid open and several nurses stepped out. And following them, her eyes finding him and her expression going from concerned to relieved, was the Chief.

 

He'd resigned himself to a lecture. However, though firm about him staying away from Kulish and not threatening to tase the medical staff, Vick's tone held more of an understand flavor than he'd been prepared for. What he wasn't ready to accept, though, were the instructions to go home and get some sleep for a few hours. It wasn't a factor to him that O'Hara had been given the same orders and had complied without argument. After all the shit he'd wallowed through in the past twelve hours he wasn't prepared to just scamper off to his house and chew on his temper over an episode of Silk Stalkings – a DVD collection more soft core porn than protect and serve but at least it offered a tantalizing distraction when his mind required the break.

 

He blamed the mental assault of soft limbs and short skirts for his lackluster argument once the order was given. Spencer was being cared for and had a squadron of protection aside from his grizzly bear father to see to his needs. Kulish was under guard and under sedation and wouldn't even be taking a piss without an armed escort. There was no reason to stay. And he didn't have it in him to try.

 

A squad car drove him home. His sedan was waiting in his driveway when they pulled up and he clenched his jaw, knowing that whoever had sat behind the wheel probably hadn't bothered to wipe their feet first. And God help them if they'd stopped for fast food – if there was even _one_ french fry...

 

And then the need for a shower overcame the concerns for his car. He muttered something lucid enough to send his escort back along his merry way before heading to his door. Automatic room check – hand near his weapon as he three sixtied the space because he'd be damned if anyone ever got the drop on him from behind his own door again. Area secure, he bolted himself inside and moved for the bathroom.

 

Reaching the tile mid-hop as he stripped his socks, he tossed them back into the hallway and patted to the sink. He still felt some nausea from earlier but at least the humiliating need to vomit was past. Now that he was no longer in sight of his partner. At least, this time, he hadn't showered her in it – unlike a certain disaster at sea involving rabid vermin. God, there were reasons he armed himself around any mammal that wasn't equipped with a saddle.

 

Tired of staring at his face in the mirror, he flipped on the shower and shucked the rest of his clothes – kicking them out the door to pile next to his socks. Pushing his hand past the curtain, he felt the water just beginning to warm. Good enough, at this point he'd take a horse trough complete with the horse.

 

Shivering, he stepped into the small cubicle, shuddering again until the spray began to lift steam around his body. Two hours. That was all he needed. Maybe three. Three at the most. Of course, that banked on how long it took to scrub the slick sensation of gelled Spencer blood from his limbs.

 

Then there was the image of Spencer's organs forced out through the gash in his belly – shiny, pale pink fading to green gray as it oxidized in the stained air of the cellar.

 

And then there were the bodies.

 

The forms on the couch, stripped of gender and dignity by the weapon of a butcher and the vermin that arrived later to feed on the remains.

 

And worse... upstairs... the children...

 

Carlton lurched over and belched air – hot convulsions trying to force the void of his gut to offer substance. He breathed hard and wrapped an arm around his middle through the dizziness that followed. He could take a sander to his skin but flushing his brain matter would take something a bit more astringent.

 

Luckily he had a cupboard stocked with several varieties of forgetting.

 

Turning to lean his shoulders against the tile, he pooled shampoo in his hands and scrubbed it through his hair.

 

Four hours.

 

Four would be just about right.

 

~-~-~

 

 

Leona, one of the nurses assisting with Shawn's surgery, called for the second time at around three in the morning. Updates, even spaced hours apart, were the only thing bringing him any solace. They were the only thing to deter him from leaving the waiting area. He knew where that man was being held. The hallway only had a single room with a single exit.

 

But this second call, when his self control had begun to reach its weakest point, he'd been given the news that had managed to erase all thought of Kulish.

 

Shawn was out of surgery. He'd survived.

 

He wouldn't be able to see his son right away; they'd moved him to the post anesthesia care unit to monitor his recovery from the surgery. However, as soon as he was transferred to a hospital room he'd be allowed visitors.

 

Only when his phone was back in his pocket did Henry think to look for Gus. He hadn't forgotten about the young man, but he hadn't really been thinking about him much in the last few hours either. The last thing he really recalled was some mention of getting coffee. A scan of the area located Gus in moments. He was curled up on one of the short couches against the far wall – his legs hanging off the edge. There was a paper cup on the table beside him, the sludge at the bottom long cold. It had been hours since he'd gone on his caffeine run, yet Henry had never noticed his return.

 

A shoulder shake was enough to start the process of waking but couldn't do much for the heavy confusion that followed. There was no doubt that Gus had been in it for the long haul and being pulled back to consciousness from the middle of his deep sea dive was taking a hit to his equilibrium. Only one sentence was needed, though, to put him back on dry land.

 

“Shawn's out of surgery.”

 

The words stopped the yawn mid-stretch and Gus pushed himself straight with only a small wobble.

 

“Is he okay?”

 

Henry nodded. “He seems to be, at least for now. They're monitoring him but will let us know when we're able to see him.” Not that charging up there right that moment hadn't brushed through his thoughts but he was already on the watch list from his earlier actions and there was no way he'd risk not seeing his son. Still, it would be a rough wait. It could be hours before Shawn recovered enough to be moved. Though he'd made it through without major complications, that didn't do much for the worry for the ones that could still arise. The doctors had already warned him that there was a high risk of infection from the conditions Shawn had been kept in coupled with his injuries and dehydration.

 

Gus stretched; yawning again before standing. “You want anything from the vending machine?”

 

“Coffee would be great, thanks.”

 

Checking his pocket for change, accepting the three dollars that Henry slipped him when he came up short, Gus headed across the floor towards the stairs while Henry fished out his cell phone.

 

He knew Maddie wasn't sleeping any more than he was. He hadn't called her since he'd received the last update and he'd promised to keep her informed. Though he'd yet to see their son, he was immeasurably grateful he could at least share some good news.

 

One ring and he heard her pick up on the other end.

 

“Mad? It's Henry. He's out of surgery. I think he's going to be okay.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Tiny was sitting beside him. He hadn't spoken, but Shawn knew what he wanted. The bottle of water was just inches from his fingertips. There was only one simple thing to do and he could drink. Eat, drink, and be merry. He couldn't laugh but it didn't matter anyhow as the urge to do so had left seconds after forming.

 

“Please...”

 

Everything shuddered. Tiny didn't move.

 

In the other room, Seth was screaming.

 

_You're a monster!_

 

_You're a monster!_

 

_You're a monster!_

 

Shawn gasped, shivering. No, it didn't happen! He'd hallucinated all of it! He'd never do something that horrible – he'd starve to death first! It couldn't be real!

 

Tiny watched him, staring without blinking.

 

Tiny wasn't there.

 

Shawn stared where he'd been but there was only darkness. He'd gone between blinks and now there was only a fuzzy square of black where he'd been.

 

He sucked on his lips and shivered as he watched a bulk of shape hunch across from him.

 

The shape was gone and he could hear feet.

 

Not feet; teeth, tickling pearls – ticking chips – making bloody holes to drink from his fingertips.

 

Tiny leaned over him to touch his hair.

 

“Dobre.”

 

Good – he was being so good.

 

“Voda... voda...”

 

The only wet was a trickle across his legs.

 

The nips were at his wrists now – long, narrow teeth sinking deep – hooking into his flesh like parasites.

 

Tiny stroked his hair.

 

“Dobre.”

 

“Please...”

 

Pressure against his lips.

 

He opened his mouth and tasted blood.


	12. Breaking the Rhythm

A little after eight the next morning, after he'd broken down and gone for a coffee in the cafeteria, Henry was finally told that Shawn had been moved to a room and could receive visitors. The coffee left on the table with two sips missing, he followed the nurse to the room on the third floor. On the way there, they passed through the waiting room to collect Gus, who'd fallen asleep again on the couch.

 

That time of day, there were far more bodies to maneuver around as staff delivered breakfasts to patients and family showed up for visitations. He moved through them without seeing them as anything more than shapes. 

 

Gus was just as silent, just as focused. The last view Henry had had of his son, he'd been gasping with pain and delirium – his body torn open and bleeding. He'd been alive, but his chances had been slimming by the moment. And even with a seeming miraculous survival, there were still risks, still warnings. He could still die.

 

The nurse opened the door but Henry couldn't wait for her to move aside and pushed past without apology. 

 

Shawn wasn't moving and in those seconds, Henry felt a pounding insistence that they'd been misinformed, that they were too late. But it wasn't until he saw the lift of his son's chest – the proof that there was still life, that Henry was hit with the deeper mix of emotion. Relief struck so profound that he shivered. But walking towards the bed, he was also hit by pain – fear at what his son faced as he fought through all he'd suffered.

 

A wheeled chair had already been placed bedside, but Henry left it to Gus to claim the bit of furniture. Standing was better. Standing meant a quicker response if he needed to grab medical assistance. Standing meant he could see more easily into Shawn's eyes. See if there was anything more to fill them other than that blank, drooped stare. 

 

Nothing other than consciousness spoke of his son being aware. 

 

“Shawn?” He wanted to touch his fingers, feel his wrist, feel the beat of circulation and be sure it was steady. But both hands were wrapped in bandages, his right arm secured in a sling to stabilize his collar bone. Smaller wounds along both arms and more, hidden behind his back, had been cleaned and painted rust red with iodine. Rat bites. No stopping the shudder as he saw all the gouges where teeth had sliced through flesh. 

 

His cheeks were white, dry and patchy from dehydration and blood loss. Lips were cracked and had bled, eyes were bloodshot too. He was on a saline drip and his second unit of blood in addition to the units he'd received in surgery. Tests had shown him to be severely anemic with dangerously low hemoglobin. Packets of salve were in the top drawer of the table on the opposite side of the bed to treat his chapped lips. Henry maneuvered around the frame to get at the drawer. He needed activity and staring helplessly at his son wasn't cutting it.

 

A soft whisper as Gus started to speak relived him of that duty as well – tasks boiling down to one. He dug out a handful of packets, tossing all but one on the table top and tore open the top corner. Squeezing out the jelly-like substance on his pinkie, he leaned across the bed to dab it over lips that appeared to have been chewed raw.

 

He barely touched his son when Shawn jerked away. Breathing skipped to a pant – hissing though his nose and bypassing the measured dose of oxygen. Eyes shut and his lips pulled down. It was only seconds, though, before his expression settled again. His lips dropped slack and he didn't pull away as the ointment was brushed across broken skin.

 

Once the process was complete, his eyes slid shut. Breathing slowed. He was asleep. Medication had been given earlier – they still had him on morphine and while it controlled the pain it kept him knocked out too. The nurses had said they'd return every hour to take his blood pressure and do other tests, give him more medication, keep him pain free.

 

Curtains were pulled across the windows but warm sunlight still filled the room. The glow competed with the overhead lights so Henry kept them off. There was enough light for the nurses to work by so they wouldn't need to bother with them. Henry couldn't look away from his boy.

 

Those two weeks, frightening at first, had become walking death by the end. He'd not allowed himself to imagine his son's life spilling out, but to see that horrific display in the sub-basement had torn aside all bravado. He could feel something like sobs shuddering under his lungs. The fresh sear of the emotion rode the thin skin beneath his eyes – baked there and left panic to crisp within the creases of his age.

 

Shawn was still dying with every breath that promised his life continued. There had been no real lucidity at any point in his rescue, nor none during his moment of wakefulness. This was a shell dressed as his child with a soul lost under horror. Henry was terrified at ever getting him back.

 

Madeline would be arriving in a day. Though Henry had insisted she remain where she was until he had news, it was nearly impossible for him to forgive her for listening. For hearing Shawn plead for her, broken and sobbing, and her not being there to comfort him.

 

How could she do that to him?

 

It was a vile thing to pour that blame on her but his mind couldn't see past the destruction of Shawn's body and spirit. In those seconds where Shawn had cried out for his mother, Henry had hated her.

 

His fingers reached out to caress an ashen cheek, gentle as though the flesh beneath were crafted from a substance more fragile than blown glass. He'd seen Shawn hurt before; seen him bleeding and afraid, seen him reach, on that rare moment, for comfort from his father. This went so far beyond those moments of fear. He could no stop his own chest from hitching while he hastily shored up the wall of sandbags erected against an unexpected tsunami. Emotional distancing over the years had been, he'd thought, a safeguard for his heart. He knew now that it had done just the opposite. He had no protection now with this wrenching agony before him. He couldn't stop the flow that built up and built up. 

 

A chair rolled up behind him, Gus had to have seen him trembling and had offered him the support. He sat as Gus whispered something softly and then offered him privacy as well. The moment the door closed at his back, Henry took a bandaged hand in his own – holding it to his face. And with the shadows of the room to hide him, he wept for his son.

 

~-~-~

 

 

Spencer had been in ICU for a week now. His only visitors had been his parents and Guster, Mrs. Spencer having arrived earlier that week. Well wishes from the officers at the station had been given to Henry to pass on to his mostly comatose son. 

 

A second surgery was planned for that evening. Tissue hadn't attached properly or something, Carlton wasn't completely clear. Either way, it meant a kibosh on his partner's plan to drop by the hospital. 

 

Henry hadn't been much for sharing, Carlton hadn't been one for asking, but he'd still heard about the ongoing infection, fevers, silence. Spencer hadn't spoken any of the times he'd been awake, though those times were laden with drugs and under ten minutes in length. What Henry hadn't said, hadn't needed to, were his fears that his son would never recover. Carlton was shocked that the young man hadn't died yet, but that probably wouldn't be a comfort to blurt even if expressed with awe and some admiration.

 

He still couldn't erase that crime scene from his mind. The horror above with its rank abandonment – casual disregard for life. And below, the active tableau of human torture, the living being stripped of all that made him human. Hung as a carcass but not even afforded the mercy found in a slaughterhouse. Gutted and left to bleed.

 

It still tore at Carlton's own intestines, that memory. And afterward, returning to the scene in that dank pit... Finding the remains and identifying them by dental records as the last victim taken before Spencer's disappearance. The family notification he'd offered to take on himself – strapped with the guilt of finding the boy too late. Vick, however, hadn't allowed him his penance and had gone instead. Probably for the best; his tact, as he was often reminded by his partner, could be better nurtured.

 

He'd returned to the crime scene many times since that first day. His body revolted at it, though he no longer vomited at the contents of the dungeon he still suffered a painful reflux late at night – his ingestion of pepto enough to coat the interior of a battleship. 

 

The body had been... devoured. No way to keep the press out of this one, the red beaked succubus, Sharon Sheffy, had been front and center, damn near beaming once it leaked that the Monster of Santa Barbara, aka the Tooth Fairy, had been snared and put in a cage. Here he'd dropped even the attempt of tact, loosing language even the most audacious rag would never dare print before the reporter had been hustled back by other officers behind the flapping yellow tape that had clearly delineated that space as a crime scene. Not that it had stopped her pleas for a quote. He wondered if they'd print the non-verbal gesture. He'd take the reprimand, it had been worth it.

 

Those long, deep gouges in Spencer's belly below the ruin of his gut...

 

The computer screen before him wobbled before his rubbed one hand across his eyes. Not far away, O'Hara was returning to her desk with another muffin she probably wouldn't eat. The previous lump of crumbly carbs had solidified on the edge of her desk and was now better suited as a paperweight than a food product.

 

Just as untalkative as their consultant was the man that had held him captive. Kulish, also hospitalized, had been confused during his times of consciousness. After several rounds of tests, his doctor had nailed down the problem as lead poisoning. Further tests of the pipes in the sub basement had found very high levels of lead contamination. Spencer's doctor had also been informed but tests of his blood showed that the amount of lead in his body wasn't high enough to require treatment.

 

Other than hypothesis, nobody but the victim and perpetrator knew what had happened in that basement. And neither one of them would, or even could, talk about it. Plenty of theories to work with – plenty of evidence to base those theories on. That something sick and depraved had taken place in the cold dark was indisputable. The nature of that act or acts was mostly deduced by the state of the remains found strewn about the floor and tucked, piecemeal, in a large freezer. They had enough to lock Kulish away for many eternities. But that, of course, hinged on his mental state. Even without the lead poisoning there was something severely wrong with that creature. The lawyer assigned to him, young and hungry, had already been squealing about reduced capacity and psychiatric care. Meaningful incarceration appeared to be slipping away with every day that passed. The only one facing a lifetime of punishment for this hideous crime was the victim himself.

 

“We need to go see him.”

 

Carlton absolutely did not jerk at the words spoken at his immediate left. It was a muscle spasm from sitting hunched for too long.

 

But as his partner didn't call him on it, he wasn't obligated to explain himself.

 

He rubbed thumb and index finger into the groove of his eyes before turning bloodshot attention to the equally exhausted woman nearby. “I'm pretty sure going under the knife again isn't going to make Spencer more open to guests.” And even he flinched at his word choice. O'Hara only sighed, her eyes flicking down to the hands twisting into her pant legs.

 

“I-we need to do it. Even if he's still...” She breathed out, looking up at him again. “Maybe, maybe he'll sense us. I just think... Carlton, he needs to know he isn't alone...”

 

“But... he's not alone...” Guster and the Spencers had been at the hospital almost round the clock from what he'd heard. Additional warm bodies would do nothing but add a new layer of awkward discomfort to the already non-existent conversation taking place there. 

 

The look he got now was that semi-familiar expression reserved for perps explaining how the baggie of rock hidden in their pants wasn't theirs and must have been stashed there by magical crack elves.

 

“What?”

 

She didn't immediately respond other than to tip one eyebrow. Why she assumed he'd developed mind-reading powers at this juncture was beyond him, probably hoping the ability had rubbed off from Spencer, like the fraud could pass around anything more than a head cold. A review of his comment left him no more enlightened by her irritation, not that it ever did. Why she dragged it out...

 

“We're going to go see him, Carlton. He needs to know people care about him other than just his parents and best friend. You do realize that Vick, Buzz and even Dobson have been to the hospital to see him in that last week, right? And practically half the station has sent get well cards. And yet, two of his closest friends here haven't made the time yet?”

 

Carlton mouthed the word “friends” like he'd just eaten raw jellyfish but had enough self-preservation to do it when O'Hara's eyes were down. He also knew he couldn't fight her on this. 

 

“Fine, we'll figure out a time next week when...”

 

“Friday. This Friday.”

 

“O'Hara, he's having surgery tonight, I doubt he'll...”

 

Her eyes hardened. “And that gives him two days to recover. But I'm not waiting any longer, Carlton, and neither are you.”

 

And it was done.

 

“Well I'm not buying him flowers.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

They sat on either side of the bed, Madeline with her fingers caressing the back of one limp hand while Henry clasped his own tightly together.

 

He'd lost the anger towards his wife the moment he'd picked her up from the airport. Her face had been worried, only, at first. They'd collected her bags, a single large suitcase in addition to the carry on; she'd packed fast. And then they'd walked out to the parking garage. He'd unlocked the truck and helped her inside before stashing the suitcase in the back. But when he'd slid in behind the wheel and turned towards her, she'd wrapped her arms around him and begun to sob.

 

Any shred of resentment that may have remained had vanished as he'd held her. 

 

Her face was dry now, though her eyes were still red and glazed. Reaching across the bed, Henry laid his hand across the fingers she'd curled around Shawn's palm. She sniffed, pressing her free hand against her lips as she turned to him. A spill of tears fell down her cheeks.

 

“He's...” Henry coughed out the roughness that clogged his throat, “he's going to be alright. He's a strong kid, Mad. He'll get through this.”

 

More tears fell as Madeline closed her eyes tight, nodding at the assurance neither one of them dared disbelieve. They had to keep the hope of recovery their only thought. To think anything else would be too much like inviting that possibility into the room with them.

 

A soft knock behind them had Henry sitting back and Madeline wiping the wet from her face with a tissue.

 

“Come in.” She invited back even as the door pushed open. Shawn's night nurse, Angel, offered them a smile as she entered. Henry didn't think much of signs and wonders but he still felt a lift in his chest whenever this particular young woman was on duty. 

 

“How's he doing tonight?” 

 

Madeline smiled and stepped away to allow the nurse to wrap a blood pressure cuff around her son's left bicep. “He seems to be doing really well.” She offered back. Henry could see he wasn't the only one affected by the nurse's presence as Mad breathed out and relaxed a small bit. The nurse smiled at them before activating the free standing cuff monitor, the thin wrap swelling until it squeezed around Shawn's arm.

 

Allowing the cuff to decrease incrementally while the digital readout on the computer screen flashed through sets of numbers, Angel moved close to the bed and leaned over her patient.

 

“Shawn?” Her hand rubbed up and down his arm. “Hey, you think you can open your eyes for me, sweetheart?”

 

No movement at first but with repeated, gentle urging, his eyes pulled open, blinking in a drugged, sticky way. Angel stepped back to check the screen when the numbers stabilized, writing down Shawn's blood pressure before removing the cuff once more.

 

“Ninety over sixty... little lower tonight but not that bad.” Pulling a short syringe and tube from her pocket, she moved to the IV line in Shawn's hand. Still seemingly unaware, he only rolled his head towards the wall as she began to draw blood.

 

Henry watched his son's eyes, waiting for... anything. Any sign that Shawn was awake, that he recognized his parents, that he knew he'd been rescued. But as before, after a few more minutes, he shuddered through a breath and closed his eyes again.

 

Finished with the blood draw, Angel pocketed the vial and gathered her clipboard.

 

“As soon as we get his blood work checked the anesthesiologist will be down here to prep Shawn for his surgery. It should only be about an hour. Are you both okay? Did you have any questions?”

 

Henry gathered Shawn's hand in his, mindful of the sling, while Madeline moved back to her chair to do the same. She smiled up at the nurse as she settled in her seat. “No, thank you. We're fine.”

 

Nodding, Angel headed for the door. “If you need me, just press the call button and I'll be right here.”

 

Henry rubbed his thumb over the exposed knuckles. The bites had healed quite a bit over the week, scabbed over with only a blush of red in the surrounding skin. 

 

He was so tired. Sleep hadn't been possible outside of a few moments here or there. He'd barely been home enough to lie in bed; spending most of his time at Shawn's bedside. No different for Madeline, she'd only changed clothes a few times whenever she'd returned to her hotel room. If not for Gus to be there whenever he could manage, they probably wouldn't have slept at all.

 

One hand was brushing over Henry's eyes when he felt the fingers in his grip tense, balling into a tight fist. His eyes opened fast to see Madeline trying to soothe the arm that had bulged under her caress. Not even time for soothing words as Shawn suddenly groaned, eyebrows rumpled. His body twisted on the mattress and Henry reached for his legs to hold him steady... and he felt something wet under his fingers.

 

“Mad... get the light, now!” He pulled up the blanket as the light brightened through the room. There was a spreading stain of blood beneath Shawn's body. “God...”

 

Madeline didn't wait for him to press the call button but immediately darted out the room, her voice crying for help. In moments a nurse returned with her. A single look at the writhing figure, the blood stained mattress, and her hand pulled open the door. “Stay with him, I'm going to get the doctor for you!”

 

Shawn's forehead was now clammy, his breathing hard, and both Madeline and Henry held his arms as he dug grooves into the bed with his heels. Seconds later the door opened again – two more nurses entering and instantly going to either side of the bed. A moment later the doctor appeared with the previous nurse just behind him.

 

“We need to get him into surgery, now. He appears to be hemorrhaging and we can't wait.”

 

Henry and Madeline were quickly moved aside as a gurney was brought into the room and Shawn was transferred to the new surface. Madeline gasped at the amount of blood that had been hidden until then; Henry's arm wrapped around her body and held tight as he stared only at his son.

 

And then they were taking Shawn from the room, a nurse holding the IV pole as they raced for the OR.

 

Angel was back by then and remained with them, saying something that must have been assurances; promises that Shawn would receive the best possible care.

 

Henry heard nothing.

 

He held his ex wife, needing her for support as much as she seemed to need him. 

 

With nowhere remaining to rest his eyes save the bloodied mattress, he closed them tight, both arms enveloping the woman at his side.

 

And he started to pray.


	13. It Eats its Own Heart

“ _Yzha.”_

 

“ _Myaso. Yzha.”_

 

“ _Tak... dobre... dobre...”_

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Kulish was responding to the treatment. Seemed everything was working in his favor since he'd been brought in. The bastard had yet to speak to anyone yet he'd even managed to upgrade his legal council. Big news once it hit the racks that an honest to God cannibal had been captured in Santa Barbara. It had taken less than a day for it to go national and since that time, reporters from as far as New York had been desperate to get film of both the “Monster” as well as his only surviving victim. Anyone with any connection to the case had been set upon by camera crews; officers and grieving family alike. Vick had finally assigned an officer to keep guard over Spencer's room to keep the aggressive press away from the man. Barely surviving the second surgery, he had yet to awaken two days out. Once again, O'Hara had been forced to postpone their visit. Carlton, however, no longer felt relief about that.

 

He'd never been one of the legion of fans that followed Spencer's clown act like they were the pastel colored poodles in his performance. His emotions towards the man generally hovered around forced tolerance – bumping up to grudging appreciation on exactly five occasions. Far more rarely had he ever felt concern. More rarely, still, than that – guilt. And it was this last emotion that froze him, glued him to the station when everyone else around him, obviously, had taken on Spencer Watch 2010. 

 

Henry had thanked him for saving his son.

 

What would he say if his son died because help hadn't gotten there soon enough? If Carlton had been the one missing, would Shawn have found him sooner? It left a hole in his chest – the way the answer was so clear in his head.

 

How could he stand in that room and watch the man slowly die? Every forward step in his treatment was hampered by two stumbles backward. The first surgery was eclipsed by a massive internal hemorrhage – Spencer nearly bled out before he'd even reached the OR. They managed to save his life a second time but now the infection they'd been controlling had gotten away from them, charging through tissue like a wildfire. His fever had been climbing daily and there was now talk of possible brain damage if they couldn't stop it. And with his body already so weakened, brain damage was the positive outcome. Because it would mean he'd at least survived.

 

But now... 

 

He hadn't been able to speak to Henry of the new complication. No doubt it was the media circus that had promoted the so-called altruistic act but Carlton knew better. Because he knew the snake in a suit from previous court hearings. Nudging out the state appointed council, DA Wayne Mattock had offered to take on Kulish as his client free of charge. His claim was that he felt a duty to protect a mentally diminished man from “the SBPD's witch hunt”. He'd found a sympathetic judge with enough miles on the bench to be flirting with his own diminished capacity and within a day, the paperwork had been signed to transfer Kulish to a minimum security psychiatric hospital pending full evaluation to be set at a later date.

 

There'd been enough confrontations between Lassiter and Mattock that it was no surprise when the man had sought him out to twist the blade.

 

“ _You know, Lassiter... people believe what they are taught to believe. What you believe is built upon what society determines is correct behavior. Correct behavior is determined by the majority. But the majority is in contradiction with its own teachings. We are taught that man evolved from a primitive creature. The primitive being was forced to survive by blood and battle – killing his enemies and taking what it needed. In nature, the strongest survive by preying on the weak. In our own history, if nature is built on these principles, then by what dictate does man presume he can make laws that go against this? What it means is that we have the natural prerogative to improve our own lives at the cost of another. It’s built into our DNA. Oz Kulish was acting on his primitive brain. Who are we to condemn him for a drive that lingers in all of us? You have a nice day, detective.”_

 

The drive home from the station that day had involved two detours. One to the grocery store to replenish an empty refrigerator, and the other, unplanned, that took him past the hospital.

 

Carlton had sat in the parking lot long enough for his pint of Moose Tracks to melt partway. He'd discovered the gooey mess when he'd finally shaken off the numb fascination with the vast building and headed home. Melted cream and chocolate had saturated the bottom of the paper bag and smeared stickiness on a bunch of bananas and half gallon of milk. He hadn't even bothered to complain as he'd cleaned up his purchases and tossed the soggy carton of ice cream. He didn't analyze if he considered this some form of karma – he just accepted that it was merely a measure of what he deserved.

 

He spent the evening staring at the television. He knew he'd eaten at some point because when he woke up the next morning, there was an empty box from a frozen dinner sitting on the counter.

 

Mattock's words wouldn't leave him. There was something unsaid that had clung to Carlton like sap. Sticky residue that clogged in his chest with implications deeply horrifying. He heard the phrase cut through his head, "there but for the grace of God go I." And suddenly it's as if it had started raining and the chalkline dividing right from wrong pattered away with every drop, creating a muddled smear of gray. Because there was no grace for him as memory after memory began to groove shallow slices through his brain.

 

“ _Dude, what's your glitch?”_

 

“ _You, you're my glitch!”_

 

How many times had he dismissed him? Refusing to listen no matter how earnest he was?

 

“ _If I catch you anywhere near this case, I will throw every book I can find at you.”_

 

How many times had he shoved him, pushed him, rougher than needed; grip tight enough to bruise just because it felt so good to see those eyes lose their cockiness and squeeze, just the smallest bit, in pain.

 

“ _Spencer! Long time no see. Or is that... no need?”_

It was so rare, seeing his face fall. Seeing the look that said he knew he was beaten. That he was inadequate. Useless. Impotent. It was something Carlton had always reveled in. Like a drug. And like any good addict, he always craved another hit.

 

“ _Ronald Reagan was the worst president ever!”_

 

He couldn't count how many times he'd wanted to throw that punch – knock that overgrown brat on his ass and, if lucky, shed a little blood too. The insult itself had hardly qualified as justification – it was the irritation – that same damn button pushing that had finally built to the point of explosion. And he hadn't held back. Hadn't wanted to. Convinced it would feel so good.

 

He hadn't been prepared, though... to feel nothing.

 

From the first moment he'd met him, he'd found Spencer's presence distasteful. Sickening. A flavor like bile clinging to his tonsils. At first he'd blamed the obnoxious disrespect of procedure. Then it had been the loss of his partner and sometime lover. Then it had been the flippant way he'd slid into a career that Carlton had spent years and lost a wife in earning.

 

There had always been a part of him that had hated the kid. A part of him... a part of him that had wanted to see the man cowed. And just a little... broken.

 

He hadn't acknowledged it. Not until now. And it made the vomit tickling in his throat surge towards the back of his tongue. 

 

Kulish had gone to the extreme, but how could Lassiter condone his own actions when his motivations had been the same? No he didn't want to literally slice the man apart, but, as with Kulish, it had always been about power. Power against someone he viewed as weaker, lesser, unworthy of his respect. He dominated Spencer every chance he got... and Spencer... let him. He never fought it. Most of the time... he actually seemed to encourage it. And there was no redemption in that. Spencer just knew his buttons, and Carlton had never resisted being goaded into striking out. 

 

How bad was it that Spencer had known what to say to activate his primitive responses? Or was it even worse that they always rested so near the surface? That he was always ready to make use of the aggression that forever hummed just under the skin?

 

His temper had lessened through the years, but never once had he backed away from a chance to put the younger man in his place. He'd enjoyed putting his heel in Spencer's throat – even if only metaphorically. He'd never bothered to truly consider why.

 

Did that mean Spencer was the perfect victim? And if that were true... what did that make Carlton?

 

“ _...we have the natural prerogative to improve our own lives at the cost of another. It’s built into our DNA...”_

 

Carlton braced his hands on either side of the kitchen sink. The water for his morning pot of coffee was still running, but he wasn't really seeing it. He was seeing Shawn; face bruised, body stripped naked and torn apart. 

 

And he couldn't stop asking himself... was he so far removed from the creature that had done that?

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

Henry was brooding again. He'd spent the last five hours at his son's bedside. He'd given up sleep, given up food, given up any sort of entertainment beyond the weeks old magazines stacked on the low counter near the windows and the muted TV only occasionally turned on. Gus had been in as much as possible, to the point of using vacation and sick time and finally going without pay to be with his friend.

 

Madeline...

 

Madeline was at her hotel. 

 

She'd called to say she'd be back that evening. That had been three hours ago. She'd explained, of course. She'd left Chicago during the middle of an urgent series of sessions in order to be with her son. Henry didn't know the details and she was bound by confidentiality and couldn't discuss it with him. But he knew enough that it was something she'd needed to attend to now.

 

Henry brushed his fingers across Shawn's forehead. Still warm, but not the scorching heat of the last several days.

 

It was the bites. The doctor called it Rat Bite Fever, a simple name for several complex diseases that were passed through rodent bites. It wouldn't have been so bad with tame pets in a clean home, but where Shawn had been kept...

 

Though they'd taken precautions when Shawn had been brought in, his extended exposure and poor condition had pretty much ensured that he'd become infected with something. The treatment was penicillin and while it didn't cause immediate improvement, the doctor had been very positive about Shawn's recovery. From that, at least. 

 

Shifting behind him and a long sigh, Henry glanced back at Gus who'd fallen asleep sprawled in one of the chairs, a book held loose in his hand and kept from falling by resting against his leg. On the shelf beside him, the paper still lay open. Not the publication he normally chose, this one had been brought in by a curious nurse wanting to know if her patient was the same young man mentioned in the article.

 

The headline had been typical of the rag; bordering on libelous. The byline no shock, Sharon Sheffy had been calling several times a day for a comment, her reporter's van damn near stalking Henry as he came and went from his home. Complaints to her employers had led to a great deal of squat – they considered the constant harassment a sign of her journalistic passion. Henry considered it a good reason to break his rule about never striking a woman. 

 

Perhaps in retaliation for the lack of an interview, Sheffy had pieced together a story with duct tape and wire, most likely with the reasoning that it would encourage communication if only to get the story straight.

 

Henry bit nails into his palms. Her fabrication had been cruel. Vicious. The only thing she'd gotten right had been the names of those involved.

 

“ _ **...following his psychic senses, Shawn Spencer found himself the latest victim of the Monster of Santa Barbara. Prognostication abandoning him in his greatest hour of need, Spencer became the plaything of this real-life Hannibal Lector. But one has to wonder, with his connection to the spiritual realm, if Spencer didn't know exactly what he was getting himself in for. There is a powerful draw to the darkest parts of human nature. Maybe Spencer found himself attracted to something he thought he could control; tame. But instead, it controlled him...”**_

 

It only got worse. Implications that Shawn had been some sort of apprentice to that creature. That he'd actually deserved what had happened. No, Sheffy hadn't stated that implicitly but she'd alluded to it with hypothetical questions and insinuation. Henry had read the entire article, though his blood pressure was volcanic by the end. “Know thy enemy” was something he'd taken to heart but it was sorely lacking in warnings that knowing your enemy could shatter your soul. 

 

A light knock stopped his deepening mood, the door opening before he could speak. Madeline slid in through the narrow strip of light and let the door click shut behind her. He knew he should greet her when she smiled at him, but he only turned his face towards the bed. Without comment, Maddie took her side again and laid the back of her fingers against Shawn's cheek, letting them stroke carefully over the bruises.

 

“He's looking better.”

 

Henry clenched his fingers tight. “Hm.”

 

“His cheeks have some color now.”

 

Yeah, bruised flesh will do that. “Hm.”

 

“Henry?”

 

His attention was seconds in turning to her; the struggle to mask his mood requiring the extra time. “Yeah?”

 

Her head tipped, that “I know what you're thinking” expression that, once upon a time, had given him the freedom to share his heart with her. Now, though, he saw it for the clinical evaluation that it was. They were no longer husband and wife. If he didn't feel like speaking to her it would make no difference to the absence of a relationship between them. It grated that she seemed to think that it could.

 

“Henry, what's wrong?”

 

He stared at her, lips twitching until they twisted up in a smile he couldn't prevent. “You really need to ask me that?” Rising to his feet, anger building too fast for him to stay seated, he leaned across the bed – gripping the rail in both hands to whisper in a harsh rasp.

 

“Shawn is lying here, half torn apart and just barely making it through each day! The media is tearing him to shreds, and I don't even know if he'll ever...” Voice starting to shake, he realized his volume had grown to just under a shout as he spat out the accusation that had burned in him for nearly two weeks.

 

“Where were you!? Shawn was in pain, dying, and you weren't there when he needed you!”

 

“Stop!” Henry flinched; his head twisting towards the forgotten man in the corner. Gus was staring at him, face anxious and eyes shining in hurt. “Shawn...”

 

Henry swallowed, his neck stiff as he felt a sudden spike of fear. There was a whisper of a sound. Less than the weight of an inhale. He looked down at his son.

 

Terrified eyes looked back; wide and feverish as he pressed into his pillow. 

 

Shawn was afraid of him.

 

Then his eyes closed – locked down tight while he trembled, hugging his left arm around his body. And in his next gasp of breath, words tore from his throat.

 

“Mom, mom, mom, mom...”

 

High and shaking, tear thick and urgent as they'd been in that cellar.

 

And leaning down towards him, Madeline pressed her fingers against Shawn's cheek, already existing tears running down her throat.

 

“I'm here. I'm here, Goose. Shh.... sweetheart. Momma's here...”


	14. Night Watch

First rule of any partnership. Do not abandon your partner. Whether the enemy was a coked up manic whirling a chain over his head or the innocuous silence of a sterile hospital room, it was completely against protocol to leave your other half without backup. It was also dangerous, likely to get your ass suspended, and just... mean. 

 

And O'Hara hadn't wasted three seconds to do just that; barely letting her comment about getting coffee cross her lips before the door had clicked shut in her wake. The damned thing was, Carlton couldn't even chase after her and demand she stay right where she was, dammit, because he'd promised Henry they wouldn't leave Shawn alone for an instant, barring expulsion by hospital staff. 

 

So there he stood, clutching that ridiculous stuffed animal O'Hara had insisted he buy at the hospital gift shop. The insanely overpriced pot of flowers his partner had bought rested in his other hand; the light scent of the tiny blossoms taking some of the stink of medicated sickness from the air.

 

A few feet in front of him, Spencer slept. He was still feverish, but had begun to improve over the week to the point where talk of brain damage had stopped and conversation about recovery had begun. While the doctors were still guarded in passing around certainties, Henry had been damn near glowing with optimism when O'Hara had spoken to him on the phone earlier that day. It was the only reason he'd left the bedside of his son at all – need for a shower, sleep, and real food to a desperate level after so long away from home. Jumping at the chance to finally visit, O'Hara had dragged Carlton to the hospital with the excuse of giving the Spencers and Gus a break. He should have known there was sabotage hidden in the gesture.

 

He could still smell the blood.

 

The memory of it sent a tremor through his hands and he took three long steps to the shelf beneath the window to deposit his baggage before he ended up dropping it. It was so odd, seeing Spencer this way. Whole... more or less. The last time he'd seen him his skin, overlapping with bruises on damn near every patch of pale flesh, had been leeching to gray – ribs tenting the wasted body and soft ropes of raw intestine draped across his belly; wrists and ankles torn and ruined – mutilated. And the blood. Swaths of it across Spencer's chest and face; down his arms, belly, legs... Combined with the horror of destroyed bodies at that house, it had finally proven too much even for Carlton's steel lined stomach. He'd been making intimate acquaintance with a bottle of Pepto ever since, willing to brave the inevitable constipation to remove the chance of seeing his meals post digestion. 

 

Spencer still looked a coughing fit away from becoming Saint Peter's brand new annoyance. Far too easy to picture the man tugging out feathers and playing frisbee golf with a handful of halos and a pearl bedecked set of gates. As long as it kept the ghostly menace from clanking a set of chains around Carlton's desk he was all for it.

 

The second the thought trudged across his gray matter he pressed his face in his hands. God help him if he ever spoke that aloud, alone or not. Whatever his beliefs about angels and demons and others of their ilk, the latter clogging up the cells on many an occasion, his mother had drilled in a hard lesson over a one sided dinner of Lifeboy. Never could stand that brand of soap forever afterward, the words stamped on his frontal lobe had never left him since that day. Speak a curse and you make it real. No verse he'd ever heard, it was none-the-less his mother's favorite go to for her foul mouthed offspring. That last time, suds foaming out his mouth like Kujo on a tear, was the last he'd ever allowed anything stronger than “fudge” to slip past his lips within mom's earshot.

 

“ _Call me when somebody gets shot or there's a dead body.”_

 

Damn if she hadn't proven herself right that time; his blithe comment hadn't come back to him until that entire event had been over with and Spencer had been recovering in his hospital room after surgery. It had left an odd tightening in his throat at the time – just the irony of it. He'd dismissed anything with regards to the feeling that he'd adopted any of Spencer's touted enchantments – the idea of even coincidental predilection something that had stirred his craw. It hadn't changed the odd need to apologize.

 

He'd resisted it, then.

 

Supposedly natural sleep was the only thing keeping Spencer under, if one disregarded the amount of drugs acting as sand bags against the swollen ocean surge of agony barely held at bay. Not enough from what Henry had said – enough requiring an amount that would probably put the kid in a coma. But to escape his experience, would it be so bad to allow him that mercy? No one knew, yet, what Spencer really remembered. If he remembered anything. There'd yet to be anything coherent in the handful of times he'd been awake – his only responses laced with fear. Lassiter didn't need his memories to know Kulish was guilty. In this one instance, he'd be content if they never emerged. To be rid of his shame, he'd even dust off a few Holy Mother's – rub a few beads. He'd believe in spirits for a while if that's what it took.

 

Fingers twitched against the blanket beneath them and Carlton sat back – breath hissing to a crawl as he waited. Head rolling back and forth, Spencer's forehead lost the smoothness of gentle sleep, sweat beading up before trickling to his pillow. His lips began to move. What had seemed like waking wasn't – the shudders of a dream – memory – sinking into soft flesh as limbs started to jerk. Nothing violent though the fear that that could change had Carlton pulling the call pad close to his side of the bed. Breath now wicked out rapidly – shivered and scraped over vocal chords that had screamed themselves hoarse. Heat baked across the twitching body – broken by a turn of icy shivering and back again. And this was recovery? 

 

The whine, fear or pain or maybe both, slipped out among the snuffs of air. Carlton now wondered if Henry should be called, though the man was probably just getting the first few minutes of actual sleep in... well in reality, since Shawn had been taken. O'Hara was closer and though it was clear now that she was fetching their coffee from a black market vendor at the Columbian boarder, she had promised this would be a two person vigil. Whatever she'd been hoping would take place by this enforced babysitting, it wasn't going to happen and Carlton needed his partner. And so did Shawn.

 

And while a gesture that would never see the light of day; never be known to the suffering fellow beside him, maybe this could be the start of that payback to what Carlton felt he owed the young man. Small though it was, if bringing O'Hara into the room could provide the comfort Carlton couldn't – that would be enough to beat back his guilt for that day at least. Just a day.

 

She was in the room within seconds of his call. She'd been just outside the door almost the entire time. She was lucky that gratitude edged out retribution by half a point. Or maybe it was the increase of whimpers from their agonized charge but regardless, it saved her ass from a verbal beating that, while deserved, probably wouldn't have made a twitch of difference.

 

“Shawn, you're safe. Shh... it's okay. It's okay, you're safe.” Her whispers, her hand smoothing up and down one taut bicep, seemed barely effective at first. But in a few minutes, the tiny noises of distress had begun to ease again. The twitches took longer, but lessened as well – regular breaths replacing the near panicked gasps. From the far side of the room where he'd been keeping company with the plant and the obnoxiously grinning stuffed skunk, Carlton stared at his cuff. Not near enough time had passed to call in one of the three Musketeers, and he felt a wince at including Madeline Spencer in that offhand designation, he knew that this bout of embarrassing discomfort had no way of ending fast enough for him. Surely there had to be somebody else...

 

And then he stalled on that thought. There wasn't anyone. Yeah, the guy could charm a bag of flour, but so far as real friends went – people who would willingly take just one hour from their day to watch him breathe... McNab, probably. The Chief, if time allowed which it rarely did. Henry, Guster, Madeline... Somehow he had a hard time picturing the churro guy out in front of the Psych office being one of that list in spite of Spencer being his best customer. In spite of the tips the young man left that tended to equal or exceed the cost of the treat itself. Carlton had seen him do it and had snidely questioned the practice. The answer back, a rare second of levity, _“His wife died. Kids need to eat.”_ And then it'd been back to nonsense and visions of bananas in tutus.

 

Some minutes into his pondering, a nurse entered the room. Standard bed check again; blood pressure, pupil response, temperature. Then she asked Juliet kindly if she could have a little space before flipping up the bedding. The detectives looked at various points in the room to give Shawn some privacy as his catheter bag was switched out.

 

Once the bag was disposed of and the bedding straightened, Juliet returned to her seat.

 

“How is he?”

 

The nurse removed the blood pressure cuff while smiling at the two of them. “Pressure is better, but he still has a fever. It's gone up just a little to about one hundred but that isn't abnormal. His doctor expected that it would fluctuate.” 

 

Juliet nodded while Carlton checked his watch. Half and hour, damn. He'd be chewing his knuckles off before Spencer Senior managed to wander back to the hospital. His partner was either ignoring him or was really that focused on the damaged wrist she was stroking with her thumb. Regardless it made him uncomfortable and he jumped on the chance to escape.

 

“Since you obviously couldn't find the cafeteria I'm going to grab that coffee...”

 

“Vente with a shot of hazelnut.”

 

Some part of him felt as though he'd been led down a narrow fenced tunnel to a trailer loaded with other hapless bovine. Especially with that little smirk on her face. Still, he was being released so he only replied to her request with a grunt.

 

Columbia was sounding pretty damn nice right then.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

His walk to the cafeteria had been at a slower pace than his usual clipped stride. O'Hara had not only left him alone but hadn't bothered to make her absence worth his pain. While a believable excuse for most occasions, he really did need that cup of coffee with as much frantic hunger as a denizen of a Sam Raimi flick lusted for warm brains. 

 

Paper cup in hand with O'Hara's tricked up beverage sitting on the table before him, he sipped and savored what wasn't even up to the standards of cheap instant. It was, in fact, exactly what he wanted. Something more concerned with caffeine than flavor. It was no less than what he deserved. More, even, than he warranted for the trespass he felt weighing down his spine. He was a step away from pleading for a crime to drag himself and his partner away from this hell before he scalded the impulse with a gulp from his cup.

 

Another hour and Henry would be back. Two at most. No way, as burned out as the guy had to be, would the man let himself grab more than a fraction of time to recuperate with his son still so close to the edge. Carlton didn't often ponder that sort of devotion. He'd never had a father show that much desperate worry for his own welfare. Never felt that sort of love; not even from Victoria. O'Hara, admittedly, was the closest he came to having someone truly care for him. 

 

And this was the last place and the worst time to be sinking into his own “never hads”. Nor could he make himself sit at that table any longer. It wasn't in his nature to sit on his ass when something needed his attention. True, he'd rather be skirting the line of police brutality with Kulish, but that choice had been taken from him. He hadn't even had the opportunity to ask the man his name so much as a “why'd ya do it”. Most criminals he got. Motivations were really not that hard to peel apart. The seams were there for anyone to see and once you started yanking threads it all became clear. But psychos that killed just to kill? Was it something from childhood that twisted them wrong at some point? Usually he could care less. Analyzing those freaks was somebody else's job. But... lately he couldn't keep himself from wondering.

 

“ _...we have a natural prerogative to improve our own lives at the cost of another. It's built into our DNA...”_

 

If Kulish was the twisted result of a warped childhood... did that mean anyone with a troubled youth was vulnerable?

 

If not for Hank, would Carlton be a killer instead of a cop? He knew of the rage that lived inside him. He channeled it through dedication to justice and determination to be the good guy. The guy in the white hat that rode away in the sunset at the end of the movie. Of course, guys in white hats never had to fill out reams of paperwork or account for every shot they fired. But still, he tackled those requirements too because they were the net that kept those evil sons of bitches from slipping through the cracks.

 

Most of the time. As long as they didn't have a snake lawyer and bleeding heart judge who'd spent more time watching Oprah than studying law. If Kulish ended up back on the street so help him God, Carlton would stalk the bastard till the day he died. The darker part of that vow he was frightened to even consider. That if Kulish walked, Carlton would do more than simply stalk the man. That if Kulish walked, he'd turn an honest man into the killer he feared he'd become.

 

The cafeteria was far behind him now. Two floors away and elevator doors sliding open before him, Carlton carried two cups in his hands, one lightened by half. Grateful for the handle rather than a knob, he used his elbow to push down and open the door – catching, for just a second, Juliet's hand on Spencer's forehead before she jerked away.

 

“Coffee.” He said as he passed her the cup. She took it but didn't sip – eyes on the foot of Spencer's bed where one bare foot half poked from his blanket.

 

Instead of questions, Carlton sipped his coffee. Resting his lower back against the wall, he let his attention glaze as he looked anywhere but at the form on the bed. 

 

At the far edge of his vision he could see the line that bounced out each heart beat. Thump... thump... thump... each one encouragement that there was still life. Still life, like a painting of fruit – frozen forever behind glass. 

 

“Carlton?”

 

He turned to his partner – skipped over the body, Spencer, to lift his eyebrows at her question.

 

“Yeah?” He sipped lukewarm liquid and waited.

 

O'Hara leaned until her elbows rested on her knees. The movement tugged at her blouse – freeing it partway from where it tucked into her slacks, allowing a peek of warm skin. 

 

_Skin. Spattered with red. Leeching oxygen fading color from limbs. Lips going from fleshy pink to bruised blue. Ribs standing out – an anatomy lesson above the rent in his gut – organs free to the air and silky soft under his fingers..._

 

His inhale was a stutter and he turned away from her to peer through the blinds at the parking lot below. The vents beneath his fingers puffed cool air and he shivered at the chill.

 

“Do you think...?” The words were a thought balloon above her head – shimmery black text in a circle of white. The rest of what went unsaid was there too – smaller font and faded to gray.

 

He sipped again while trying to find an answer that was honest without the cruelty of realism. He wasn't comfortable with cliched patronization. He'd never offered such threadbare consolation to his partner. 

 

“I'm sure he'll get through this.” _I'm not sure if he'll be fine._ Actually, he was pretty sure fine wasn't even on the table.

 

O'Hara may well have been just as adept as he was at picking up the thread of words allowed to hang. Enough years shared together in cars, on benches, across one another's desks, and, occasionally, side by side on sofas. They had communication that was damn near... God, he hated himself... psychic.

 

The conversation was lost between them after this. Only once did O'Hara speak up again and this to say she needed to use the bathroom. Spencer remained silent the rest of the visit as well. Whatever he was or wasn't hearing he kept to himself. 

 

Henry returned halfway through the third hour. Even with gashes of gray beneath his eyes he still looked apologetic for daring to leave the hospital. 

 

Both detectives were headed for the door. Freedom was close. Freedom from the steady blinking monitor. Freedom from the stink of medicine and death that lingered in the pockets of his cheeks. Freedom from the bloom of guilt that pressed so close in this room that it twisted a blade in the throat.

 

And he was willing to leave a heartsick and beat down man alone in his vigil?

 

His soft whisper of her name stopped O'Hara just outside the room. Her heels made soft clicks as she turned around to face him.

 

“Go on ahead. I'll catch a cab to the station later.”

 

“Carlton?”

 

He looked back over his shoulder; at the bowed head and tightly knit shoulders. At the hand wrapping a hand both firm and gentle.

 

No words, again. She understood.

 

Her hand on his arm was a gesture that nearly made him pull her to his chest. He hadn't expected the emotion and beat against it with an ugly stick to keep from embarrassing himself. He hoped she didn't see the cool wet he felt in his eyes.

 

“Take care of them.” She whispered.

 

He nodded back. “I will.”

 

He watched her until she turned the corner towards the elevators. With the door shut behind him again, he found another chair and sat down next to Henry. He expected to be hustled out. Henry was just as leery as Carlton when it came to appearing fragile.

 

But Henry said nothing.

 

Madeline would be joining her ex husband later that evening. Guster would relieve them both the following day. 

 

He'd stay until one or the other arrived.

 

So help him God, he'd stay.


	15. Wandering the Halls

Everything was so... white.

 

And soft.

 

And... warm.

 

The warm he'd missed most of all. He'd hungered for it and now, given this taste, he wanted more. It wouldn't last. None of it would last but whatever twisted brain chemistry had led to his kidnapping seemed to now have granted him mercy for a time. He'd be obedient to keep it as long as he could. He'd already damned himself for one comfort so what difference would it make now?

 

What difference would anything make?

 

The devil owned his soul and he'd been so quick to let him take it too. 

 

He fanned out his fingers on the softness beneath them – wincing at the pull of knitting wounds before noticing the freedom of being able to move at all. He wasn't tied. He wasn't chained. He...

 

Something more urgent than his mobility started seeping back.

 

He closed his eyes to capture it. 

 

His only warning were steps, soft against the floor. When the touch brushed his hair he flinched before stiffening. He'd taken to his training like a good little pup but he still slipped sometimes. He desperately didn't want to be punished so he held back his tremors with will stronger than he imagined remained in him and let the caress move over his forehead.

 

He heard a voice speaking but to his ears, it came from a place beneath the water. He knew the words anyhow – didn't need their timbre to know what was spoken.

 

“Dobre, dobre...” Good. He was being good so he might not be struck. Might not be hurt. He could risk the benevolence of his keeper for his one plea. His only plea.

 

“Vo... voda. Voda...”

 

The hand left him and he almost reached for it. He felt loss at its absence much as the need for it ground glass though his belly.

 

Something icy pushed at his lips – trickled down his jaw. It wasn't the lip of a bottle but the curved bowl of a spoon. Ice. His teeth clacked on the spoon, splitting the plastic to suck in those few fragments of relief. It was taken away for only a moment – the rustle of thin plastic tearing – and then the spoon returned. A new spoon, filled again. He was more careful, not wanting to set off the big man beside him who, so far, was showing a rare patience.

 

Five times the spoon pushed frozen refreshment past his teeth before he turned his head and sank back against the softness. The hand was at his head again but it was easier not to flinch now. It was the exchange for staving off dehydration. The petting stopped in the next few moments. Another surprise as, instead, the hands tugged a blanket up his chest. 

 

Whispered words again – still that soft tone. He waited. It would change soon. It wouldn't stay this way. This was just part of the game. Soon enough the blanket would be taken away, the cold and darkness replace the warmth and light. The hands would turn brutal. 

 

Knowing a thing didn't mean he was prepared for it, though. The weight of a shape moved over him and he cringed. 

 

The murmur of words. Less foggy now. They were...

 

“You're okay, kiddo. You're safe.”

 

Stiffness through his neck when he turned his head. Pain of brightness when he opened his eyes – used to the dark and shocked by the light. Vision watered but the weakness of his limbs wouldn't let him wipe it away.

 

His father stood beside him.

 

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

“Shawn? Hi, how are you feeling this morning?”

 

Shawn shrugged. His usual answer to that question. Jenna. That was the name of his morning nurse. She was short and cute and pudgy and painted her fingernails in bright colors. Blue, green, hot pink. Today they were orange. 

 

“You have breakfast yet?”

 

Another shrug. He really needed to work out different method of answering. Breakfast had been cottage cheese and fruit. A change of pace from the combination of liquid diet and intravenous fluids he'd lived on for the first two weeks. Still another week to go before they'd release him with the stipulation that he remain under supervised conditions. 

 

Jenna checked the IV in his arm before wheeling the portable blood pressure machine closer to the bed. He didn't move when she placed the cuff around his bicep. It tightened to the point of pain, but he'd gotten used to it after three times a day.

 

Once all his checks and balances were checked and balanced, Jenna smiled at him. Now for the fun part.

 

“Ready for a walk? It's Cathy's birthday today and I think she still has some brownies left at her desk.”

 

The catheter had been removed a day earlier so at least he'd have one less piece of equipment to cart along. Of course, he'd been warned that if he had any problems along those lines it'd go right back in. He'd lost his sense of embarrassment about the issue but he still wasn't prepared to go through the experience a second time.

 

Moving to the side of the bed, Jenna helped him sit up with an arm across his back. Then, with his hand gripping her forearm, she had him slide his legs off the bed and brace his feet on the floor. She kept ahold of him until he'd eased his spine as straight as possible and wrapped his free hand around his IV pole.

 

When Jenna was sure he was steady, she adjusted his hospital gown and even made certain at the ties were actually tied. Stepping back, she frowned when he didn't move.

 

“Come on, Shawn, you need to walk if you're going to get back your muscle tone.”

 

Nodding, he immediately began to shuffle towards the door. Just like the last three times he'd done this, he had to struggle to keep his ankles from folding beneath him. A stumble would probably kill him – only one hand available to brace a fall with the other still strapped down. At least the pain in his gut was dulled with all the medication he was on. More stiffness than hurt tugging his middle with every dragging step. The weakness was another thing. He felt himself being pulled towards the floor from the hips down as he stepped into the hall.

 

His lap around the floor took about fifteen minutes. He was shaking by the time he reached his room again. Jenna, spotting his pained return from the receptionist's desk, was there to help him back into bed and keep his IV line straight. 

 

She left him after that. He was relieved that all the touching was over with for a while but felt the hollow silence that came with her absence. And it was too bright. Even with the blinds pulled, a sliver of sunlight speared through a crease where one of the heavy fabric slats had folded over another.

 

There were flowers on the shelf below the window. They'd been there for a while, the leaves starting to brown and crisp like potato chips. Petals had fallen from the roses and left a small drift around the vase. The only intact part of the bouquet were the pussy willow branches with their fluffy bulbs. 

 

Through the closed door he could hear the occasional ring of a phone, the nurses talking at the desk, the light squeak of a gurney's wheels. He rubbed his hand on the sheet beneath him to hear the rasp of fabric against his palm. He clicked his pulse oximeter against the rail of his bed. It made a clack that he found appealing so he did it again. Clack, clack, clack...

 

_Clatter._

 

_Metal on metal as the chains dropped over the hook. His body jerked hard before thumping to a stop against the concrete wall at his back. His fingers spanned out against the rough texture._

 

Shawn sucked in a gulp of air. A knock at the door before it pushed open. Jenna again, smiling as she approached the bed with a pamphlet. “Thought you might wanna get a jump on the lunch menu.”

 

She laid the folded paper on the rolling table when he didn't reach for it. 

 

“I'll be back later to pick that up. Just check off whatever you'd like.” Her hands smoothed the bedding over his feet. He curled down his toes as the touch brushed his ankles but he didn't flinch. He couldn't flinch.

 

Jenna left and he was alone again.

 

He wished she'd turned the lights off when she left. 

 

It was so bright...

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

He was in the dark. It was a blanket he'd pulled around himself. In the dark he could hide. In the dark, he could shiver at the sound of footsteps moving across the floor. In the dark, he could be real.

 

A part of himself that had been twisted missed the cold. Missed the corner where he'd huddled for so long that it began to feel like his home. His safe place.

 

He wasn't safe here. He didn't know all the cracks and stains. Didn't know the length of the walls – felt out inch by inch with his walking fingertips. Too many smiles. Too many hands, Too many assurances that everything would be alright now. That he could go home soon. That nobody would hurt him. But they all hurt him.

 

His father was there every day along with his mother. Gus was there nearly every day. Juliet came by when she could, sometimes with Lassiter and sometimes alone. 

 

He hated when they were there. 

 

With Tiny it had been simple. 

 

He just wanted it to be simple again.

 

His neighbor, Room 326, started coughing. Wet and ripping sounds that seeped through the wall. Shawn didn't know what was wrong with him, but a glance into his room on one of his walks, he'd seen an older man with sunken cheeks and black fingernails. He never had visitors. 

 

He was thirsty.

 

There was a carafe of water on the small rolling table next to his bed. He'd been told to help himself whenever he liked. He wanted it. Desperately. He wanted to lift the whole pitcher above his head and gulp it dry but...

 

But every time he reached for it, his hands shook and...

 

So he waited. His night nurse, Belene, would be there in half an hour. He would ask for water. Ask for it softly to hide the pronunciation. His father had frowned the last time Shawn had spoken the word in his presence. He'd done something wrong. So he didn't speak around his family. Most of the time, he pretended to sleep. 

 

It was too warm beneath the blanket. He couldn't breathe. He threw it from his body though the move twisted the torn ligaments in his wrist. The moon cut to strips through the blinds. He wanted to crawl from the pale bands across his legs.

 

The platter from his evening meal still sat on the table, untouched. Buttered carrots, mashed potatoes, and chicken, the skin crisped and golden. As badly as he'd wanted to vomit at the smell, he'd held it back. He'd learned to hold it back. He'd been alone when they'd brought the food. Nobody there to tell him to eat. No need to tuck the protein in his cheeks to spit into the trash later. 

 

“Shawn?”

 

He straightened his body and stretched out his legs. Belene smiled at him and fixed the tangled bedding before moving on to his food tray. 

 

“Not hungry tonight?”

 

His eyes flicked to the pitcher. He licked his lips. “Voda...” 

 

She moved closer to the bed, pulling out a thermometer and sheathing the tip in plastic. “Let me just get your temp.” 

 

He held the slim metal tip under his tongue until it beeped. Belene checked the numbers before lifting the blood pressure cuff from its pocket. He kept his eyes on the water pitcher. Beaded on the outside from the warmth of the room hitting against the ice filled interior. 

 

“One thirty-two over eighty-six. Kinda high there, Shawn. How are you feeling?”

 

Same response again. He was gonna pull a muscle in his shoulder, he was sure.

 

Belene crossed back to the table and reached for the water pitcher. Oh thank God. And then she sighed. “Are you sure you don't want any food?”

 

Shawn felt his vision tunnel. Felt the cold drops rolling down his body. A trade. He should have known there'd be a cost.

 

Before she could take the water away, he reached for the platter. But his hands were shaking so badly he couldn't keep hold of the edge. Belene lifted it when she saw his struggle.

 

“Here, I can help you.” Setting aside the cloche, she moved with the tray to the side of the bed and speared the chicken with a fork, twisting it to rip the meat free.

 

“ _Yzha.”_

 

Shawn opened his mouth.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

 

“How is he?”

 

The doctor shook his head. “We're doing everything we can.”

 

Lassiter frowned, arms straight at his sides as he walked next to the other man down the hall towards the room at the end. “What does that mean, you're doing everything you can?”

 

Taking a clipboard from the nurse that was exiting the room, the doctor folded it in his arms as he turned to face the detective.

 

“I mean, he's dying. We can make him comfortable and pain free, but there isn't anything outside of a miracle that will change the inevitable.”

 

Lassiter shook his head. “That isn't good enough!”

 

Probably used to dealing with hardheaded individuals, the doctor only sighed. “He's undergoing treatment for the lead exposure, which, under normal circumstances would be enough. However, there are other complications. Long term malnutrition for one which has led to combination of cardiovascular issues and cirrhosis, to name two. Like I've said, we're doing our best to treat him but his condition is continuing to decline.”

 

Cheated from the interrogation, now Carlton found he was being cheated out of the trial too. For all his atrocities, Kulish wasn't going to get so much as a snap of the ruler across his knuckles. Already suspected of diminished capacity, the monster probably had no clue he was dying. Probably had no clue he was in a hospital with his care paid for by the state. Gruesome murder after gruesome murder with a single surviving victim. Suffering all around him and he got a cushy ride all the way from here to hell.

 

The families of all those victims would never see justice.

 

Spencer would never have the chance to confront the beast that had assaulted him.

 

He remembered a line from Law and Order that fit painfully well. That in this case, justice was not only blind, but cruel as well.

 

A look through the window to take in the weakening creature beneath the crisp white blanket. The officer at the door, at this point, seemed like so much overkill.

 

There was nothing left for him there. “Call me if anything changes.” Though he already knew what that change would be.

 

He nodded to the officer. He wrestled enough politeness to shake the doctor's hand. He hesitated next to the elevator doors before continuing to the parking garage. He had nothing to offer Spencer and the kid was fighting his recovery as it was. 

 

He kept his calm all the way out to his car.

 

A button push to unlock the door and he dropped down behind the wheel.

 

Door closed. Hands flat on his lap. Eyes stared at the dash.

 

“Dammit!”

 

The heel of his hand slammed against the wheel, creaking the housing. Gripping his fingers around it, he bowed his head, only for a moment, and let his eyes close tight.

 

Then he started the car and pulled out of the lot. He had a report to write.

 


	16. And On And On And On it Goes

Bleary teary blinks didn't immediately clear his vision, but Shawn could tell a shape of some sort hunched at the side of his bed. Too slender to be his father, hair the wrong shade to be his mother. A nurse? Though usually they were more into taking vitals than holding hands. A rustle that came with the movement of the body nearby and a paper cup was held against his lips.

 

Water. He gulped at it – unable to stop the response any more than he could stop one hand from peeling out from beneath the covers to hold it in place until he'd drained it. He didn't beg for more. Didn't have to because a second cupful was held out for him again. Expecting heavy petting to join the generosity he was again left off center when the fingers didn't even brush his chin to wipe away the drops that had drizzled into his collar.

 

There was a soft click as he scrubbed a palm across his damp throat and then more shuffling along with the crinkle of paper. Shawn blinked again, regaining clearer vision and getting a focus on the woman to his right. Pale, with red hair and redder lips, why he was thrown by her casual jeans and T shirt he didn't know. Brain conjuring the expectation of a pressed suit and flashing light. He'd never met her before, had he?

 

“How are you feeling, Shawn?”

 

So she knew him. Or had read his name from his patient information hooked next to the door. So far anything but threatening yet he wanted to pull away from her just the same. Fingers tipped with blood red nails, talons, reached for his cup a third time. “You want more water?”

 

He did, but shook his head. He wanted distance.

 

Leaving the cup on the table, the woman crossed her legs and lifted a small tape recorder from the pocket of the light jacket slung over the arm of the chair. Red button depressed she set the device beside the cup before next retrieving a notebook. Was she a cop? A detective? Was that why he'd imagined her in a three piece? But why would an unknown officer be trying to get a statement? 

 

“That's pretty incredible, what happened to you. Shawn, I need to ask you some questions. Do your best to answer them and I'll be out of your hair in no time.”

 

He nodded. Answer. Right.

 

Her smile was like stitches bursting from a wound.

 

“Okay, let's start at the start. Do you remember when Oz Kulish abducted you?”

 

Who? Tiny. She meant Tiny. It was... muddy. Thinking. He couldn't remember anything before. He could only remember... dark. Dark and cold. Skin scraping on a floor worn into a shallow bowl near the wall. His corner. Dirt collecting on his limbs only to be blasted away by the high pressure hose. Water captured in rapid gulps before, too soon, it was cut and he was left shivering in a puddle of muddy waste.

 

He was thinking too long. She was waiting. He shook his head and looked away. He tapped his fingertips together, a bit of tape tacking the ends. He watched the way his fingertips held, barest stick before popping apart. He heard another click and looked up as the woman slid something into her pocket. He didn't know her name. She hadn't introduced herself. 

 

“That's alright. I know this has to be difficult for you. But we'll get through it, you and I, okay?”

 

He nodded again and looked back as she scribbled a few words. The itch of pencil on paper had a sharp quality. Grating – the tone of too hard lead squeaking out pale gray lines. Stings of pain through his eardrums at the barely there rasp.

 

She wasn't comfortable sitting, though, he thought, not from the chair. She twitched, as though the next movement would be to shove from seated to sprint. She wasn't accustomed to being still.

 

“Tell me what you remember after you were taken. What's the first thing you recall?”

 

His fingers plowed beneath the sling supporting his right arm. The dead weight of knitting bone ached less with whatever medication he was on. The burn on his shoulder, not so much. Topical ointment was reapplied every day but the scalding itch remained. But it, at least, gave him a direction to turn when the hurt through his abdomen reached a screaming point.

 

He could see the gleam from that knife. 

 

Tell her. He had to tell her.

 

His mouth made words – formed them – but fell short on vocabulary. Muscles tensed so tight his jaw rattled. Tell. He couldn't tell. But he had to. He'd been ordered to speak. Ordered to tell his side. So it could be told again at the trial.

 

He chilled at the thought of it. All the people crowding the room. Crowding in to see the monster and the psychic. Sounded like a book title for something penned by Clive Barker. Living it had been closer to Wes Craven.

 

How long since he'd spoken? Beyond a few desperate pleas? Tiny wasn't there, now. He could do this. He'd...

 

_Get away with it..._

 

Do it fast, while his chance was open. “C...c-cold.” Then. He'd been cold then, but still he shivered. Audacity in jumbling out that first word all throat scraped and dry leaves harsh. Cold was his home. Cold was safe. Beach boy from childhood, a babe of the sun and sand and here he was yearning to creep back to that frozen pit. To Tiny. Screwed up didn't cover the insanity he existed in.

 

Red lady leaned forward, eyes like nickles. “Cold? Where he kept you?”

 

An answer he could give with a nod. 

 

He rubbed his nose before tucking his hand back beneath his brace. The movement made his wrist ache. That was okay, though. He could be still. He'd learned to be still.

 

The pencil in the woman's hand was moving, moving, moving. A lot to take down for just that single word. She must be noting his condition. Or maybe the color of his robe or how many flowers were in the room. Hell, she could be working out the details of her grocery list. 

 

The scrub of graphite on paper stopped. Brown eyes rimmed with an overly thick application of mascara looked up from the pad. Rich red mouth smiled.

 

“You're attractive.”

 

Whu...huh? His gulp nearly choked him but already she'd turned back to her tablet.

 

“What was it like, where Kulish kept you? Were you in an apartment? A warehouse?”

 

“B-basement.” His jaw felt stiff, as though he'd been chewing ice cubes. Every word that creaked out did so with a shiver. Tiny wasn't there – his brain knew that. He'd been rescued. His brain knew that too. His body, though, was in the dark about all of it. His body flinched from the crackle scrape of his interrogator flipping to the next page in her pad. She'd already filled a whole page?

 

“This is hard, I know. But I need something more. Can you describe this basement for me? You said it was cold. What else can you tell me about it?”

 

Ache chipped in his spine from his inability to sink against the bed. Dry mouth at the question delivered as a command – spill his guts about spilling his guts. Dehydrated skin still carried enough moisture to sweat. 

 

Single words he'd managed – blurted out delivery with much the articulate stammer as his first attempts at language. A skill he'd excelled at since the age of two, near impossible to curtail even in sleep, he now struggled to inhale the needed breath to weave something together that surpassed a grunt.

 

Another cup of water pushed into his hand, droplets shaking out to soak the bedding.

 

“Take your time.” Her pencil tip stippled against the lines pages, a truth against the lie of her words. An offering of generosity but she had somewhere to be and it wasn't sitting in a hospital room prying three point Scrabble scores a play at a time.

 

He drank what remained in the cup, cold sliding down his throat and soothing the rasp. He could speak now without the nail file quality. If he could... speak.

 

He wished he could just write it all down but hands still too weak to do more than clumsily grasp, he would be hard pressed to write his own name as anything more than a scrawl. Shock to feel tightening bloat in the rim of his eyes, his sleeve soaked the evidence while pressure in his throat stole his first attempt at a real reply.

 

He was wasting minutes, bent-knee creep around the subject she was dragging him through with a rope around his neck. They'd have a case whether he spoke or not – his body's wounds had to be on record by now along with the other remains in... 

 

Hitching breath caught around the rupture of bile he barely kept back. 

 

Seth. The only face he had of the kid was from a single photo in a police file. A picture his mother had provided. A school picture with a background of sky and clouds. He'd had blonde hair, towhead white, and a spackling of pale freckles. One front tooth had been chipped. Nineteen years old and convinced of his immortality, he'd been goofing off on monkey bars at the playground across the street from his house. A misstep trying to high wire it on the swings ended in a face plant to the sand below; a pitstop on the support beam on his way down.

 

He'd cracked a bone in his foot at the same time. He'd still been healing when he'd disappeared.

 

Another scuffle against his eyes, robe damp on the edge, and that same soft click of sound while his arm was held against his face. Head turning fast, Shawn finally saw the mystery device before it could vanish away. Tiny, matt black finish, product placement ala Ashton Kutcher the slender camera didn't even make a bulge as it tucked back into the woman's jeans. 

 

Recognition, his hibernating recall woke and roared, brought about with the sight of the Nikon in crimson tipped fingers.

 

“Sheffy...” Hissing her name, stutter held at bay with outrage, he wished for the strength to drag the scribe roach from the room by the hair. He settled for jabbing at the call button, the physical substitute for shouting her out of the room. 

 

She stood, then, though there was no rush in gathering her things. Tablet under one arm, she lifted the recorder – finger depressing the switch to stop the tape. But instead of leaving, she leaned close to the bed. Voice losing its eager beaver edge, it dropped an octave and gather a measure of calculated precision as she hovered over his pillow.

 

“This is your chance to get the real story out. I don't know if you've heard but Kulish isn't doing so well. He's been in ICU since you were brought in. Now, far as the state of California is concerned, that's a win/win. No money wasted on a trial; hell, they don't even have to shell out for an execution. But, see, that just isn't going to be good enough for the family of Seth Branders. You remember him? Cute kid, just graduated and getting ready to enroll at Antioch University? Well they'd like to see justice for the murder of their only child. They want blood for blood. They want to see that predator strung up by his own guts. Thing is, they'd probably be content with a sacrificial lamb.”

 

She lifted the tape recorder again and pressed the button – a minute wheeze as the tape resumed its rotating trek.

 

“Shawn Spencer, is there anything you want to say about your experience?”

 

Surge of boiled rot just south of his tongue, massive purging withheld by a will far more ironclad than his roiling belly, he threw a bolt on the shaking trapdoor encasing the dread he'd been dodging for weeks. Added a padlock to that mother for the extra security before carefully lifting his fingers away from the solid wood. Banging and braying from the other side but easier to ignore if it couldn't reach him just yet. Another day of safety gained by a hair.

 

Whirring device still inches from his face; spiderwebbed in a grip – fingers more skeletal than slender. Leaning in towards the tape, eyes drifting up to the stoic face above, Shawn gathered the reserves to speak exactly what was on his mind.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Escorted out by two staffers in crisp white, Sheffy hadn't bothered with a backward glance. Remedicated, rehydrated, and spinning circles behind his scalp, Shawn had turned away from the platter of fruit left on his bedside table and instead, reconnoitered the hills and valleys of his own mind.

 

Deep chasms in some of those valleys, covered over with a scrim of dirt and leaves a single misstep would send him plummeting to the sharpened spikes at the bottom. Impaled on his own memories might read well in literature but in practice held the appeal of romping naked through a pig pen wearing a loincloth of turnips.

 

No more nursely visits for at least half an hour, for not the first time he wished the room came equipped with a shower. Sponge baths were all well and good when his body didn't instinctively curl into itself at the biweekly scrub down. Brain cooking up a vision of Sheffy with beady eyes and long naked tail; he still stung from her bite, more than capable of leaving scars just as his bewhiskered roomies had done. Nervous pilgrimage through his bumpy gray landscape abandoned, Shawn turned study to the hands draped together in his lap. Wounds healing still, tissue soft pink and puckered where teeth had found a meal and sank deep. Odd, to experience this side of the plate.

 

Had Seth known, before... before he'd been..?

 

Heavy hot surge returning, sudden and demanding. The egg and juice he'd forced down at breakfast begged release while his overtaxed system pled respite. Acid burgling from deep places within was the closest he'd get to a draw but at least the nurse wouldn't have to add vomit duty to her shift. Gasps lifting his body, he couldn't find the will to push himself back into bed once the turbulence ended. Instead, one arm snaked through the rail, he contented to sag half falling from the mattress. 

 

Good view. Mostly. Couldn't see anything outside of the four feet of floor directly below without rolling his eyes but he really didn't want to roll his eyes – migraine inducing action that it was. Knock knock at the door followed by snipped off greeting and fast steps, for small hands his nurse had a lot of strength to waste as she heaved his upper body back into place. Dizzy spell notwithstanding he appreciated the help. 

 

“Are you feeling any pain?”

 

Was he? Yes. More and more actually, that little role play as a limp doll had done no favors for the stitched over tear in his middle. Once flat on his back again the sickly burn became a tsunami of sensation rippling up through his chest. Rapid nod at the question along with the weak attempt to curl up like a dead millipede had her doling out the meds.

 

He was beginning to feel like a piece of equipment himself by the time she completed her third check of his vitals for that day. As she was putting away the blood pressure cuff she asked him if he was excited to be going home.

 

He thought about it. The answer he gave was the answer he always gave those sorts of questions – her reply of “you'll feel better about it once you're home” was equally standard issue. 

 

She left then, uneaten platter of food in one hand with the promise to bring him something tastier in a few hours. A new shape replaced her at the door. Leery after his last guest, Shawn winced before actually looking directly at the form.

 

Really not who he'd expected.

 

And he was alone besides, confirmed when he entered and closed the door behind himself. 

 

“Spencer.”

 

Shawn recognized that shifty, ill at ease hovering. All those times called to the principal's office. Bench sitting amongst the rest of the damned had never been much of a terror for him. Crafty, though, the master of time and fate had known what demons most plagued the youth in his care and Henry Spencer's card held pride of place on his desk. Threat of a call to dispatch to pull the old man off his route to tend to his errant spawn was better than a whipping with freshly plucked bullrushes. 

 

Lassiter wore that halo of doom now.

 

Prime opportunity to spill a haphazard melange of critical observations to explain the dour drudgery. Misplaced car keys, lost in a thumb war against Rosie Perez, was licked by the newest inebriate in the drunk tank who happened to have a violent case of mouth herpes.

 

But none of this made it beyond the planning stages. The fact that he even _had_ a planning stage now bore the weight of his whacked out mindset.

 

He waited out the detective. He was used to others filling in the holes where his prattle used to reside. But Lassiter wasn't playing by the rules. Instead, he took the scenic route with a 360 look around the room; a space he'd seen, according to one of Juliet's uneasy, space-filling monologues, at least twice before.

 

No bad guys hiding behind the curtains he finally rolled his eyes back to the center attraction. Never this twitchy before, Shawn was starting to think the guy had self-medicated on a case of Red Bull when Lassiter finally started speaking.

 

“Oz Kulish is dead.”

 

That stopped the spinning cogs. Like that, it was over. No trumpets or released doves. Didn't even merit a mime. Kulish was dead. The nightmare was over. Life, as he knew it, could resume again and everything would be grilled peaches from that point on.

 

Sudden and shocking he was blindsided with a deep ache through his chest. What should have been a celebratory moment, the monster was dead, only left him with something far closer to grief.

 

Lassiter, for having delivered such good news, didn't seem a whole lot better off.

 

Awkwardness resuming, neither one of them a fan of extended silence, Lassiter caved first by reaching for the door. “I'll see you around, Spencer.”

 

“Stay?”

 

The meek voice seeping up out of the bedding stopped the exit, though fingers remained wrapped around the handle.

 

He didn't know why the detective didn't just continue leaving. Enough just to get out that single plea, Shawn didn't have it in him to ask again. Didn't know why he'd been consumed with the need to beg. No, he knew. The need. More than just the sudden terror of being alone – a nurse fluffing his pillow would have been ignored and her absence welcomed. What he felt, was the same rush of yearning he felt for his mother after a nightmare shocked him awake.

 

Whatever else Lassiter brought to the table; a bad tie yet impeccably pressed suit, a doctorate in the theory of Glock, or a smile that would make small children weep... he also had something Shawn longed for. Undefinable, if he were forced to pin a description on it the closest he'd be able to come would be strength. 

 

Never something he'd held in great regard when things such as cleverness and cockiness were at his disposal, the loss of both along with the will to fake it left him grasping for anything that would save him. 

 

Maybe it was mercy. More likely it was pity. Pride a mound of smoldering ash, Shawn would take either one with a “please, sir, may I have some more”. Whatever it was, Lassiter dropped his death grip on the handle and grabbed a chair. 

 

He stared at his hands. He stared at the flowers resting on the table near the bed. He looked up at Shawn's face and glared.

 

“I'm only staying until your father gets here.” 

 

Shawn, body relaxing into his mattress, felt the first bloom of contentment he'd experienced in weeks.

 

Fair enough.


	17. Misery Aquaints a Man with Strange Bedside Fellows

Detective Dipstick. Any other time he'd kick Spencer's ass to his ears for cursing him with that label, in print no less. Loathe to accept the catchiness of it, it seemed every paper in Santa Barbara had latched on to the term and used it at least once. Threat of litigation aside, it had become the favored descriptive for even the more reputable rags.

 

But even with a liberal smattering of the hated moniker scattered throughout the article, his anger wasn't for the maligning of his person. Well, not entirely. It wasn't what motivated him snatching the paper from his desk to stalk toward's the Chief's office. Barely slowing enough to rap the doorframe, he withheld his charge just long enough for entrance to be granted.

 

Vick was at her desk, indulging in coffee still scalding hot given the steam rising from the cup. 

 

“Did you see this crap?” A shake of the paper not enough punctuation, he threw said crap to her desk before crossing his arms. Another sip after his blunt rant, Vick swallowed before lifting the paper to glance over the headline.

 

“There was a copy on my doorstep this morning. No idea who left it there. The thing is, Detective, a crime hasn't been committed. Much as I'd like to put Sheffy away for her misuse of semicolons, she hasn't actually done anything illegal.”

 

Lassiter snorted. “I'm pretty sure I could detain her for suspected prostitution.”

 

The chief eyed him back. “I'm pretty sure you couldn't, tempting as that may be.”

 

Fingers tracing his handcuffs, Lassiter looked her way. “I'm serious.”

 

Vick, just as deadpan, glared. “So am I. Do I need to order you to stay away from her?”

 

Creaking his neck in an irritated twist, Carlton drew in a thick breath before folding his hands together. “Of course not, Chief.”

 

She turned back to her monitor, still sipping at her coffee.

 

“A search of her vehicle.” He rubbed his chin while Vick coughed against her fist. Probably swallowed wrong. “I've always though she's a little tweaked. Bet she has enough stash in her glove compartment to rate a charge of intent to distribute...”

 

“Detective...”

 

Dreams of tackling the red sheathed vamp to the concrete with a knee between blade sharp shoulders sizzled away from his inner vision – his Chief replacing the pleasant contemplation with one eyebrow tickling at her hairline. Carlton took her unspoken advice to dial it down and once more resumed a quiet posture of repose.

 

An almost smile on her face, Vick held out the paper to her subordinate. Holding back from the urge to snatch it from her fingers, Carlton thanked her, more or less, for her time before accepting her dismissal and heading back towards his desk. Nearly there, he detoured left, stopping next to his partner where she was typing at her computer.

 

“Can you believe this?” His need to wax fervently verbose having been unsatisfied with the Chief, he picked up where he'd left off with the person he should have gone to in the first place.

 

Not looking his way, Juliet didn't pause in her typing. “Yes, actually, I can. Sheffy is a snake. Too bad we can't arrest her on principle.”

 

“That's what I said!” Comfortable now that he'd found a semi-willing sounding board, Carlton settled half a hip against her desk. “Well, actually I said we should bust her for prostitution.”

 

“Carlton!” That stopped her fingers long enough for her to give him a look. Not really shocked, she'd stood next to him during too many interviews to truly be off put by anything that came out of his mouth. Still, her expression was laced with a sort of weary questioning of sanity he'd grown used to.

 

“You've seen how she dresses, don't tell me you haven't thought it too.”

 

At least she had the decency to tip her head sideways with a contemplative nod. Meanwhile, Carlton unfurled the paper from the twist he'd wring it into, reading again the words that had set his pot to boil in the first place.

 

_**Santa Barbara's self-proclaimed psychic, Shawn Spencer, proving the tenacity of the human spirit, wore his heart on his sleeve yesterday afternoon during an exclusive interview. Shaken by the events that had claimed the lives of so many others yet to be named. Held for weeks in a basement prison, frightened and cold, his only hope of rescue lie in the dubious hands of the SBPD's Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, aka Detective Dipstick,** _

 

Carlton wrinkled the paper in his hands, reading on.

 

_**a title given to him by Shawn Spencer himself, and not without just cause; the detective's many failures highlighted, in stark contrast, to the successes of the psychic wonder. And yet, wonder or no, Mr. Spencer proved to be just as human as any other person when he himself fell victim to the Monster. Day after day he waited for salvation, body and hope withering together while the best and brightest of the SBPD struggled to find a single lead.** _

 

_**As the days wore on, Mr. Spencer would be forced to rely solely on the whims of his kidnapper, a man who had already murdered his entire family, including three children under the age of seven, in cold blood. With hope abandoned, what sort of gruesome acts would Mr. Spencer have been subjected to? What sort of bargains would he have agreed to simply to be allowed another day upon this earth? Worse still, what sacrifice? As this paper has previously speculated, there could have been some twisted connection between these two men. Driven by fear; perhaps something more, Mr. Spencer may well have allowed himself to become the very thing he had hunted.** _

 

_**How else to explain when, after so many lives were lost, Shawn Spencer, alone, survived?** _

 

Her words continued in this manner for three more paragraphs, all sub-headed beneath the photograph of Spencer, eyes haunted, staring into space from his hospital bed.

 

The image disappeared into the folds of the paper, crumpled to a wad in his fist. Nearby, O'Hara had finally stopped typing and had turned towards him.

 

“Hey.” Her head tilted when he looked at her. She wasn't smiling but, instead, seemed to actually be worried. “I know that article is terrible and what she wrote was cruel but... Carlton, she's said worse about you and I've never seen you react this badly...”

 

He was thrown off his rant tracks at the comment, a punchline that went over his head completely. No idea what page she was on it was clear they weren't even reading the same book. This was something he wasn't sure how to respond to after so much time spent pinkie linked with the woman he could honestly say was his best friend in the whole world.

 

“You think this is about me?”

 

She did – the confusion on her face dead to rights. He looked down at the crushed ball in his hand. How to explain it when he couldn't find the words to clarify it in his own head? Sure, the title stung, though respect from that particular rag would not be forthcoming prior to the Apocalypse. How could he articulate that his indignation was wrapped around the comparison that would turn an innocent victim into a villain? He found himself the tall kid on the playground demanding the bully pick on someone her own size.

 

O'Hara didn't answer him, though her eyes grew disturbingly glassy. Not the time or place to deal with her inner child, he was no kicked puppy to be wept over nor were they his emotions that needed safeguarding. Mumbling a line about missing lunch he hurled the paper towards his desk and grabbed his jacket before striding towards the exit.

 

~-~-~

 

 

His seventh grade science instructor had tried to teach him, aside from the dangers of combining acid with bunsen burners, that the brain was the supercomputer that delivered messages to all parts of the body. Touch a hot waffle iron and the brain would tell the hand it was a bad ouch and it might be best to create distance. He'd learned at an early age that pain was something to avoid at all costs. Physical, emotional, and all other forms in between.

 

But somehow, despite all his years of study, his brain was now failing him. While he didn't actively seek out pain, he did nothing to avoid it either. When the nurses came in to perform daily maintenance, granted a fairly painless event, he said nothing, did nothing, to get out of it. The only thing he shied away from was the former version of himself that would have suggested sponge baths as part of the ritual. In fact, those had been part of the process as well and something he'd actually wanted to avoid but... but they'd asked him to lie still, to relax... He hadn't attempted fighting it since.

 

A week ago they'd started physical therapy. Mild, with respect to still healing wounds, but required to prevent atrophy after a long imprisonment followed by a longer hospital stay. Even though he'd be going home soon he'd still be required to continue the regimen. Stretching, mostly, the pain was shockingly acute. But he didn't argue. 

 

Almost time for Gus's daily visit. Dad would be by soon after. Lately they tended to pair up rather than risk being stuck alone in the room with him. Shawn was no conversation starter these days and his father was marginally better. Gus had taken on the role of resident observational chatterer – remarking on all and anything. The quintessential moment regarded a twenty minute discussion detailing the pros and cons of liquid fabric softener. Gus was an advocate of Snuggle while the old man stuck by his off label, unscented, fat free, decaffeinated favorite. Shawn always let them talk. He often napped to the rhythm of their voices. It was when he was alone that he lie awake – eyes fixed on the door.

 

Mom though... Her schedule, unlike his father and Gus, had no set pattern. He saw her daily but he never knew when she might appear. Sometimes she came with his dad, but more often her visit would occur later, closer to the end of visiting hours. Of course, he slept quite a bit during the afternoons so if she was visiting at that time, he wouldn't know.

 

So much of his time he was alone. He couldn't make sense of the conflict either. He wanted someone near but he was uncomfortable with the nurses. Even his parents and Gus made him uneasy – by turns sitting in tense silence or creating conversation intended to include him that just came off as forced.

 

The only person he'd consistently felt relaxed with had been... Lassiter. Lassiter had never once expected him to speak. His visit, a day after he'd broken the news about Tiny, he hadn't said much and Shawn had been able to drift off while the detective read the paper. Yesterday, he'd stopped by again. The first time explained away as a fluke, Shawn had given him a question with his look at the repeat performance. Lassiter hadn't responded to his raised eyebrows. Instead, he'd thrown his jacket to the chair and begun to pace the floor, his face tight.

 

Several deep breaths and Lassiter had looked up, looked around, and then looked at Shawn. It had been... funny. Funny enough that Shawn had felt one side of his mouth twist up with an emotion he'd been without for a very long time. 

 

Lassiter had talked. He'd talked a lot actually. Talked about work, talked about Jules, talked about Henry and how the placement of their desks was clearly meant as a running gag. When he'd burned himself out on station chat he'd started talking about his favorite gun oil, which had led to him musing about his first weapon – at which point, Shawn was certain, Lassiter had once more forgotten where he was.

 

“I was twelve. I wasn't my birthday or Christmas but... one day at Old Senora Hank brought me to the sheriff’s office and said he had a present for me. I mean, you've met the man. Lovey-dovey for him was providing gloves to muck out the horses stalls. You had to earn the shovel.” 

 

Shawn had grown sleepy with the memory, seeing his own recollections of the place in a dusty haze of muted sepia. Easily imagining a skinny LittleLassie – a photograph on Hank's desk brought to life and edited for his own amusement with Randy Newman singing “You've Got a Friend in Me”. Lost in his head, Lassiter had continued on.

 

“It was a single shot twelve gauge. Walnut stock, open hammer. Beautiful. Hank was the one to show me how to shoot a tin can off a fence at fifteen yards. Took me out gopher hunting a week later.”

 

Falling asleep somewhere during the Rodent Rampage of 68', Shawn had slept through the night and had only woken at the touch of his mother's fingers against his face. He'd held still under the touch and had been rewarded with a cup of water. She'd stayed with him for most of the afternoon.

 

Tired of the current silence, he tugged his blanket, pulling the remote resting just out of reach to within snatching range. He hadn't watched the news in weeks – in part because real lucidity had only returned recently. Not his normal go-to for entertainment, he found himself flipping channels to the local station. 

 

Tiny stared at him from the screen.

 

The remote slipped free and clattered somewhere very much out of reach. Top of the hour story even four days after his death, the Santa Barbara Monster was, apparently, still number one on the charts. Kathrine Mullens in her cobalt blazer opened up with a recap of the past month of “a city held in the grip of terror”. 

 

“ _After an intensive search of the surrounding property, police have discovered approximately thirteen separate remains. In addition to the bodies, the skeletal remains of numerous dogs and cats were also found.”_

 

Stock photos followed of himself and Gus standing outside Taylor's Crossing after the shootout. A moment later, the image switched to a video of Lassiter and Juliet walking into the station, ducking around microphones with a few “no comments” thrown into the mix. The report went on about the recovery of the “only living victim” and the role his psychic ability might have played in his survival.

 

If he could reach the remote he'd have buried it in the screen.

 

The story ended, switching to a list of upcoming stories, mostly to do with the Mayoral race. An aggravating hum rustled just beneath his skin. Instantly, maddeningly, he had to escape the room. His shoulders hunched up as he pushed against the mattress, huffing out with pain, arms shaking before he'd managed even an inch. 

 

Oh it hurt. Strength washed out with the tide and he fell back, still trembling with unspent anxiety. He still couldn't even rise from the bed without an arm around him to help. He could call a nurse but the idea of another person added to the room, close enough to touch him, was repellant.

 

He lie there instead, breathing in short stabs and tried to ignore his way through the hum in his muscles. Eyes open and staring, he squeezed at the fists of fabric in his hands. He swallowed, forcing deeper breaths until it was no longer an effort.

 

He was done with this place. Done with cotton robe and the IVs and covered meals he couldn't eat. He just... he wanted normal. He wanted his own bed and his own TV and his own schedule. He wanted to wake up when he was done sleeping, not because a nurse needed to squeeze the blood from his arm with a velcro cuff or cram a thermometer under his tongue. He wanted to stare at the sky without a pane of glass in the way. He wanted to hear the sound of the ocean beyond his door, not the coughing of patients or the conversations of hospital staff. 

 

The emotion attributed to his desire wasn't excitement or even anticipation. Far closer to desperation when he took a moment to think it through, it quickly overtook all other thought to the point of obsession.

 

He wanted to go home.

 


	18. Sucking the Marrow

His companion hadn't managed more than a sip at the iced tea in her hands. No doubt both thinking about the missing member of the group, someone whose very absence had created this new collaboration. Having gone it alone for so many weeks now, Gus had reached a minor breaking point and had dialed up the young woman out of the desperate need for companionship. Juliet, possibly suffering in her own way for lack of radical interaction, had agreed to lunch at the hot dog place near the station.

 

Now, though, rather than rewarding conversation or even the airing of work related irritants they sat quietly, both in deep study of the Old Man and the Sea accoutrements gathering dust on the walls. The one positive of this place, other than guaranteed acid reflux, was fast service. Under six minutes and the waitress was already returning with their order. 

 

The next five minutes involved dressing up the dog on his plate with horseradish and mustard as well as removing several fries that had been haphazardly dumped across the lumpy chili and cheese concoction. Licking fingers, approving of the spicy flavor that tasted leagues better than it looked, Gus finally stabbed a fork in his meal and cut free a bite. Shoveling it in before the slowly dripping goo could stain his shirt, he looked across at Juliet while he chewed. She hadn't done more than drag one fry through ketchup.

 

She looked up, making an effort to smile before taking a bite. 

 

They ate and sipped their drinks and only looked at one another when the other was occupied with watching other patrons. Juliet had never been a difficult person to talk to before. Easier than her partner, that wasn't a shock. Easier, at times, than Shawn – though that had more to do with his efforts at seeking an exchange that didn't involve random subject shifts between popcorn logic and, well, popcorn.

 

“Ketchup?” Gus held out the bottle in spite of the pool filling a good portion of Juliet's basket. She shook her head and dipped another fry. Her dog remained untouched.

 

Mental jumble aside, Gus cut and chewed and dipped his way through his food, washing it down with regular sips of soda. He only looked up again when the waitress stopped by to refill their glasses. Juliet had eaten about half of her hotdog by this point but didn't look as though she planned to finish. Wiping chili from his jaw, Gus set down knife and fork and folded his hands.

 

“You have a chance to visit him since he's been home?” No point clarifying the “who” he was speaking about.

 

Juliet shook her head. “Not since he was in the hospital. How about you?”

 

“Every day.” He hadn't meant it as a guilt trip but saw it had been taken that way. He leaned forward a little, pushing aside his plate to place his elbows on the table. “He isn't really talking yet. I don't know how ready he is for a lot of visitors. Mr. Spencer says he spends most of his time in his room.” He stopped himself after that, feeling like he was sharing something private. Shawn's trauma wasn't for idle conversation, even with friends. Especially when the friend was someone the boy had been romantically stalking for the past four years.

 

Juliet prodded the lemon that had drifted to the bottom of her glass, stirring the straw through mostly melting ice and lifting up a cloud of shed pulp and a single seed. “Is he... how is he... looking? I mean, does he seem to...?”

 

Gus understood the complication of asking how Shawn was feeling given Shawn hadn't spoken about, really, anything. In fact, nobody really even knew what exactly he'd experienced during his ordeal other than what his injuries showed. Injuries. A paper cut was an injury. A broken wrist was an injury. _Injury_ didn't touch it. 

 

By accident, one afternoon, Gus had stumbled across an eyeful of what Shawn had been put through. No answer to his knock during a visit earlier that week, he'd dug up the hidden key and let himself in, pressured by that constant worry that had kept him up nights even after Shawn had been found.

 

No sight of any of the three Spencers occasionally occupying the home, he'd followed the floorboard squeaks to the first floor bathroom. Fist raised to knock knuckles against the closed door he'd almost jumped out of his shoes when it had opened suddenly, Poppa Spencer right in his face and equally startled – no doubt would have drawn down on him if the man had been packing. 

 

Gus, accused by his best friend for having a wandering eye, had cursed the tendency moments after his minor terror when he'd looked past Henry's shoulder to spot Junior, shirtless, hunched over his knees on the closed lid of the toilet. Taking in the too skinny body and stack of bandaging on the edge of the sink, had begun to step back. At that moment, still distracted by whatever had been trapped in his head, Shawn had dropped his hand from his right shoulder... and sat up.

 

He'd been told that Shawn had almost died, several times. He'd heard that he'd been “stabbed”. Whatever Shawn's disturbing interests Gus had never been a practitioner of the horror genre. While often coerced into marathons featuring Freddy, Jason, and Mike, he'd just as often watched them through the windowless safety of his palms. Enough of an experience to hear the terrified screams and gurgling death throes more often than not accompanied by the squelch of impaled viscera, at least he'd spared his eyes the nightmare fodder. 

 

But all those safety precautions had been destroyed when Shawn had sat up. 

 

All those averted scenes, the cruel destruction of the human body, had suddenly found their visual in his best friend. Ugly, twisted, purpled dark, flesh with months of healing yet to endure; Shawn's torso with its ghosty shadow of bones still pushing beneath the skin had frozen Gus in place with the complete monstrosity of his suffering.

 

Only Henry, pushing him back towards the living room, had edged him from that spot.

 

But after that had come the dreams. Drew Barrymore discovering her boyfriend's corpse slumped in a chair on her porch. The bloodied head tipped back, eyes milky in death, guts trailing wet to the cracked wood and... Shawn. It was Shawn, spattered and pale, face rigid with horror. The next night it was Shawn, strapped in a chair while hot wax poured over his body, the dream culminating in Gus trying to peel him free of the stuff only to strip the skin from his body. Night after night reflected year after year of video rentals and film screenings courtesy of a best friend's fetish and the promise of all you can eat Zingers.

 

“It's been hard.” His mouth worked, trying to say more, but to say what? Yet he couldn't just keep it to himself either. The whole reason for lunch was to talk to someone other than Henry about the fear he felt for his friend. Henry, like his son, had barely spoken with Gus as it was and Gus had felt it almost an act of cruelty to engage the man about his son's condition. Juliet, though, as a cop and friend would understand. If he could just get beyond the nondescript summary.

 

“He, uh... he's struggling. He doesn't talk much and when he does, half the time I don't even know what he's saying.” He refolded his napkin, stained side in, and started wiping his side of the table – pushing a few stray beans and crumbs onto the paper placemat. “It's really hard trying to get him to eat. I mean... not that he doesn't eat, he does, but he only seems to eat if someone tells him to no matter how much his stomach is growling. It's just weird, you know? This is the guy who'd put away twenty-five pancakes in a sitting _and_ have room for an omelette and home fries.” He was able to smile about that despite the sting traveling from his throat to his feet. Too soon it was overwhelmed by never ending ache. 

 

“Two weeks... Two weeks he spent with that... thing... and I feel like I've lost my best friend.”

 

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Shawn was outside again. It was the last week of November, bringing a chill to the evenings. Even huddled in a sweater and jacket he still shivered. But he wasn't ready to go back inside. His mother would be returning to work by the end of the week. She had a 7am flight to Dallas on Friday and had been packing for the last couple of days. It was just as well, though. Shawn didn't want her to go, but it was better than listening to the growing fights between her and the old man. They thought they were subtle with pitching their voices low and keeping their conflicts to rooms not occupied by their son. But strategy that hadn't worked when he was fifteen was even less successful at thirty-four. And so he sat outside and trembled in the cold. They could never work. Not then, when they'd still been trying and even less so now. Harmony, it seemed, had a half life of about thirty days.

 

Inside, the phone rang and immediately the quiet sniping ended as his father took the call. His mother's steps, hard in low heels, moved through the kitchen. He heard the screen door squeak as it opened, followed by her steps shifting to hollow clops on the deck. She stopped at his side, about a foot away with her hands held together before her. She'd been quick to pick up on his distress at unexpected touch and wouldn't even offer a hug without asking first. It was harder for his father – used to being able to pat him on the shoulder or, on a rare day, ruffle his hair.

 

He glanced back at her, ricking up the corner of his mouth in a smile that probably looked closer to a hyena snarl. She understood his invitation, though, and came to sit beside him on the bench, one arm a glorious warmth around his shoulders.

 

“Your father is ordering from Saigon House. He thought it was getting late to fix anything.”

 

Not surprising anymore. The first several weeks dad had been cooking dinner every night. He'd kinda lost enthusiasm for playing Iron Chef, though, when he found out nobody was all that interested in eating. Shawn's lack of appetite, it seemed, was up there with swine flu as far as an infectious disease. 

 

Funny thing, though. Much as they picked at their own meals, his parents hadn't stopped insisting he clean his plate. He never argued. And they were always pleased, never knowing he vomited most of it back up when he was out of sight and a floor away. 

 

He felt the building pressure of his mother's presence. Her silence not simply to share the evening. There was always something purposeful when she chose not to speak. Even with her patchwork presence in his life, he still knew every trick in her playbook. Knew them, even if he wasn't immune to them. Of anyone in the world, she had always been able to get him to spill his g...

 

He shuddered, hard, and bent down towards the table top – letting his upper arms brace against the edge while his hands wrapped with vice strength around his middle.

 

Always the memories rested, uneasy creatures between his eyes. Walking dead – shuffling and transparent most of the time but then, horrifically distinct with barely a touch of thought. And once there... once there...

 

God, he couldn't escape them!

 

He didn't dare sob, his throat bucked under the force of swallowing the whimpers seeping up from his belly. He'd learned control, if nothing else. 

 

Mom's fingers rubbed his back. She was very good at what she did. She'd gotten Lassiter to unload about his divorce the first day she'd met him. She'd gotten her own son to expose that shallow grave of rage he'd felt towards his father since childhood. Rage he'd thought had been unearthed and dealt with well enough until that single question. And then it had all just poured from him. Angry, bitter words. Each one a sharp blade intended for an absentee target. But they _had_ found a target. And there had been no stopping it even as his eyes had filmed over and he'd been forced to hide his face or risk blubbering in front of his mother. Not realizing...

 

She must have felt the hitch of breath beneath his shoulders because her hand flattened against his spine. Unlabeled, muffled horror tried to slam free from beneath the trapdoor. Once loose, he knew it would sink broken nails into his calves and rip him from his ledge; drag him down beneath the floorboards where _it_ waited...

 

He bit until he tasted blood. He licked the warmth from his lip and nearly gagged again.

 

“Shawn...” 

 

He knew, in that single start, the questions she wanted to ask without actually asking them. Her way of approach rarely so direct as it had been that day at the station – a rare moment where the need for an answer had superseded gentle guidance. Or maybe it had merely proved how well she _did_ know him. That as long as she gave him enough rope, he'd continue to weave whatever story was required to avoid telling the truth.

 

“Shawn...”

 

But the question ended there, with his name. A small car had turned into the driveway with an older man behind the wheel. After a second of peering at the numbers next to the door, he reached across the seat for the plastic bag beside him. Shawn spotted the name of his favorite take-out place as he stood; ducking back into the house before his mother had even collected her purse to pay for their dinner.

 

It wasn't just the smells of beef and broccoli that he wanted to escape. Though being indoors was hardly better. He could barely make sense of it. He felt trapped when inside, but outside he felt as though he were about to be flung from the surface of the earth. Overwhelming was the urgency to climb beneath his bed and just ride it out. And yet... And yet...

 

“No... no, I'd rather have heard from you before reading it in the paper...”

 

His father's voice in the living room. Softer than its typical bellow. Covert without trying to be obvious about it which, of course, made it super obvious.

 

“Alright. No, I'll talk to her later tonight.” 

 

Shawn walked on the balls of his feet as he crept up to the corner. He could still hear his mother's voice outside as she said goodbye to the delivery driver. She'd be inside in moments. 

 

His father walked into his line of sight and Shawn edged back just slightly; watching his dad swipe one hand over his bare scalp while the other hand kept the cordless next to his ear. He looked... angry? No. Distressed...

 

“He's... the same...” His father looked up but Shawn quickly slid out of sight; listening while watching his mother juggle her purse and the bag before heading to the stairs. His father's steps creaked the floorboards as he walked towards the mantle. Shawn knew he'd gone there to rest his elbows on the ledge above the fireplace.

 

Shawn heard him sigh just as the screen door opened. 

 

Madeline grinned at her son. “Oh, here you are! Shawn, can you grab some plates from the pantry?”

 

He wanted to hear the rest of his father's conversation but the compulsion to obey was stronger. He left his skulking spot to limp to the cabinets and gather plates, flatware, and a few bottles of water as well. Turning back to the table, the smell of spiced meat and vegetables brushed across his face. Warring with revulsion was that ravenous hunger that never seemed to leave him. Memory sense of stringy meat – hunk by hunk torn from the bone while he snapped at each bite. Saliva seeping down his chin with that delicious grease...

 

Sudden crash and a lurch as tiny pricks of pain drilled into his feet and shins. Shawn gasped, horrified, before dropping in a clumsy splay to the floor; shaking fingers rapidly starting to gather broken shards of china.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry...” He stuttered on the whisper before clamping his teeth together. He could hear the loud voices beside him and gathered faster – ignoring the slender cuts that nicked across his fingers and palm – slicking red on white.

 

Other hands abruptly got in the way. But rather than helping, they were pulling the collection of broken dishware from his hands – wrapping around his wrists. He went limp as they pulled at him – trying not to fight.

 

Prodding and pushing got him back to a wobbly stand. His ankles tried to buckle as they took his sparse weight once more. Too loose cogs, ill-fit and rusty, they shifted and would have spilled him without those hands holding him up until he could be guided to a chair.

 

A few moments to rest. Gather in the light and space and smells. Remember his place in time and the people around him.

 

His mother was kneeling before him, her skirt bound tight around her thighs, while his father shuffled broken plate shards into a dust pan.

 

He looked back to his mother as her hand rose towards his temple. He pulled back before catching himself – swallowing when she lowered her fingers before she could make contact. But she still smiled as though she hadn't been slighted.

 

“Just stay here while I get a damp cloth for those hands.”

 

He didn't budge as she stood, still smiling down at him, before heading towards the sink. His father finished cleaning up the mess before washing up and gathering fresh plates.

 

“Got your favorite.” He said before piling a plate with sweet and sour pork.

 

Shawn barely gave his father time to stop scooping before he was shoveling the chewy mix of pineapples and meat into his mouth.

 

Later, gut still screaming after the violent upheaval of emptying it, Shawn lie under his blankets without hope of actually sleeping.

 

Not many nights that he slept all the way through anyhow. But rather than the same old nightmare... daymare? … keeping his mind burning through the dark, this was something new. A puzzle. So long since he'd had something so sedentary as a puzzle to work around that he clung to it like Gollum clinging to his ring as he plunged happily into the lava.

 

Something about the phone call his dad had either made or received. Enough clues to posit at least a 95% hypothesis on the identity at the other end of that call. He'd be willing to round that up to one hundred but Gus had never been a fan of absolute certainty save for those times when he'd been certain they both were going to die a bloody death by ape attack. 

 

He also could make a high digit bet on the subject of the call. At least in part. It was the way his dad's voice had snarled like a cornered mongoose when he'd mentioned the paper. Daniel Day-Lewis notwithstanding, only one person still living would likely bring that much seething anger to his pop's timbre.

 

Shawn sighed as he rolled to his back. 

 

Whatever he may wish, Sharon Sheffy was sticking right by his side, determined to draw out his living hell.


	19. Old Bones

Bare feet covered the polished wood, a path walked a thousand times in a lifetime living in the old creaky house. Creaky, not from disrepair but merely from age. Sure, there were webs squirreled in the corners. Dust on the furniture and even a stray cat hair or ten, as several had occupied the manor in past decades. Upkeep wasn't a priority and without the inheritance the place would have gone to the bank long ago; property taxes being what they were. But then, wealth was also not a priority. It was convenient. And, without it, certain... wants... would have been far more complicated to satisfy.

 

No. _Want_ wasn't the right word. _Need_ was closer. 

 

Need. Rare occasion had provision been made; the ache softened and the screams quieted to a hum. It was the voices. 

 

Thirty eight years ago. The lower lip had been salvaged, though a scar still remained. And the taste. It lingered just back of the throat. And the need...

 

Square fingers pushed at the door; second from the end next to the staircase. Musty bedroom with its collection of toys where they'd last been dropped. Stuffed bunnies and dolls missing limbs. A scorch mark next to the bed that had been hidden by the rug. Parents never knew. Never cared.

 

Another door; a closet that still held small clothes. A blue dresser at the back. Tall, like a wardrobe. Just like that C.S. Lewis story with the lion and the witch and that funny little deer man. This one was different though. There were a few clothes inside, yes. “Sunday best” garments though they'd only gone to church three times. Twice for funerals of old and dusty family they barely knew and once for the wedding of some cousin or other. 

 

The garments were pushed aside; one silky top hanging by the sleeve like a dead bat. The box was there. Hunched down in the shadows of velvet and heavy wool. Used to be mother's hat box – covered in pink linen and held together with wide cream ribbons. It rocked a little when lifted; the contents ill fitting the container. There was a stain all down one side – yellowish brown.

 

Carried to the bed and nestled down among the collection of bears. Round cover lifted off and a scent rising with its release. Stagnant but earthy. Old. Very, very old. A curl of blonde hair caught on the edge of the box.

 

Slowly, a finger reached out to stroke it.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Juliet had read the article that morning before going to work. Carlton, in spite of the unsheathed hatred he usually expressed regarding the _Succubus_ , had been mostly non-ranty regarding it. Since the death of Kulish nearly three weeks ago, interest in the “Monster of Santa Barbara” had plummeted. Most of the major news sources had dropped the story completely. Only the local papers, specifically the rag that employed Sheffy, had bothered to pursue anything beyond straight reporting. But then, that had always been her style. She dug. And her latest expose' was no different.

 

This time around, along with her usual insinuations that Shawn had developed a twisted relationship with his captor, she was now suggesting that Shawn may have had prior knowledge of Kulish's activities yet failed to alert the police before his own kidnapping. But even that didn't come close to being the worst of it. In fact, that was just the introduction. In the text that followed, Sheffy gave a play by play of her interview with the parents of the last victim, Seth Branders. Those poor people probably had no idea they were little more than a selling point for this drawn out saga. Sheffy could fabricate the concerned and passionate investigative reporter when it suited her mood or her story. No wonder she'd managed to weasel herself into Shawn's room at the hospital. Juliet had reread that last article far more than was healthy. Had stared at the washed out black and white photo of Shawn while wishing anyone but Sheffy had been there for him in that moment of naked pain. 

 

And now Sheffy was hurting him again.

 

No doubt that Mr. Spencer would set fire to any paper that came within a block of his house, that didn't change the fact that these attacks would still cause damage. No, they weren't the New York Times, but this publication still had plenty of readership and the ongoing war on Shawn through snide suggestions and blatant accusation was just one more roadblock in the way of Shawn returning to his job.

 

Juliet crunched the edge of the paper with one hand. His job. Like the cold lapping at her ribs had anything to do with concern for Shawn's _paycheck_. Alright, it had a little to do with it but when she thought of him seeing what had been written it made her want to... well... act like Carlton when he spotted a jaywalker. 

 

And speaking of her partner, he was returning to his desk once more. As he reached it, he leaned forward to snag his jacket from the back of his chair. Juliet immediately stood; leaving the paper next to her keyboard and touching the weapon at her side as she walked across the floor.

 

“Something going on?”

 

Carlton fit his phone into his belt and glanced up at his partner. “We just got a call about someone finding a body out by Toro Canyon. The Montecito sheriff is on scene but Vick still wants us to check it out.”

 

Juliet felt a thump through her lower belly. Small chance they were dealing with a run of the mill victim then. Police departments in the surrounding communities weren't known to run every crime past the SBPD. Rather protective of their finds, it would take something huge for the Montecito sheriff to call for backup from the detective who'd repeatedly referred to his PD as the “Botox Borough”.

 

She followed her partner out to his sedan. He was tight-lipped about the sheriff’s findings. Not ordinarily something Juliet would tolerate no matter how nasty his mood might be, there was a different atmosphere to his silence now. His mood wasn't built from irritation or anger; not completely, for she could see those emotions as well in the flex of his cheek from clenched teeth. No, this was something more. She saw... fear.

 

 

~-~-~

 

The main group of officers were gathered near the base of one of the large hills overlooking the canyon. Fifty feet off the pitted road, buried in sagebrush and loose stones, was the body. Juliet swallowed. The very _small_ body. A woman jogging along the road had seen the victim – her attention caught by the reflection off colorful beads around one thin wrist. 

 

As Juliet approached closer, she immediately understood why the SBPD had been called.

 

The body was nude. Approximate age between ten and thirteen. Female. And she'd been...

 

Juliet flashed on the dungeon. On the remains. On Shawn, gutted and hung by his ankles like a calf at the slaughterhouse.

 

Darting unapologetically into the brush, she had time to hit one knee before vomiting on a lovely patch of pale blue flowers. Deep regret for that greasy breakfast Carlton had talked her into, the bacon and eggs wrap with extra chorizo was far less appetizing on the way out. She'd held it together like a hero that day at the house. In spite of seeing a sometimes colleague sometimes something maybe more... like that. Not even her partner, rumored to have a gastrointestinal tract lined with kevlar, had been able to keep his infamous stoicism intact that day. At least he'd had a sink and fresh water and a partner to hold back his hair. Maybe that was the reason he was now pulling the other officers into a circle around the... remains, allowing his horking subordinate a few moments of composure recovery.

 

At this rate the entire department was due a turn at plate – certainly by now, breakfast purging could be considered the new station sport. Who needed softball when you had the thrill of projectile vomiting? She couldn't manage to find that funny. On so many levels the last few months had been draining for the SBPD. She'd never regretted becoming a cop. Not when it took her away from Miami and not even after Yin. She loved it. She lived for it every day and knowing she could save a life now and then and keep evil people from hurting the innocent was worth everything. Worth her life.

 

Maybe that was why her heart felt as though it was folding in on itself. She was prepared for what this job could mean for her. She was at peace with all of the consequences. In a way, after Yin, she felt as though she'd defeated the fears of “what if” that had tagged along ever since graduating at the Academy. She'd looked down at the city below – imaging her body tumbling and tumbling all the way down – smashing into concrete and shattering on impact. She'd wrapped herself inside that certainty of death that, in a way, she'd felt she _had_ died. All of those weeks that had followed had involved an attempt, a battle, to restore the life she'd been so convinced had been lost. Part of the job. She could die.

 

It was losing others, though. She wasn't certain she'd ever be prepared for that. 

 

He partner was speaking. Loudly speaking. Somewhat obnoxious reminder that she wasn't currently sitting at the beach with her toes in the water. It had stopped her thoughts, though, so she wouldn't hold it against him. Oh, God, she needed some water. Spitting several times; wiping her mouth and looking her blouse over for spatter, Juliet pushed past the impulse to kick some sand over the mess.

 

By this point the officers were either bent around the body or searching the area for evidence. Lassiter was next to the remains, elbows on bent knees and hands gripped together. He looked up as Juliet maneuvered over a low shrub. That tight expression was back on his face and Juliet stopped, feeling the cold stiffen the back of her throat.

 

“What? What's wrong?”

 

Carlton stood, slowly, and Juliet felt the chill creep over the surface of her tongue. She'd missed it before, earlier. She'd thought it was just fear. But now, face to face with her partner, she could see the other emotion that had triggered her sudden burst of anxiety. He looked guilty.

 

“Carlton?”

 

The fidgeting, more than even the look of pain spidering the corners of his eyes, was the rough edged blade that forced a stab beneath her breastbone. Carlton Lassiter did not waffle. It wasn't his style to dig around for the right words – more reckless with his verbal forays and devil take the hindmost. He took to information dispensing much the way their current Governor used to mow through villains in his films. 

 

It wasn't right or natural to see him tasting the words in his mouth before just spilling already.

 

“You remember the Kulish case?”

 

Juliet dropped him a look of flummoxed shock, barely cutting off a laugh of total incredulity. “Did someone slip meth into your coffee?”

 

The irritated eye roll was more his style and helped to even things out just a little. Still, Juliet wasn't completely ready to let that slide. “Yes, Carlton, I vaguely recall something about a human butcher shop, a giant naked man and Shawn's...” Teeth snipped off the rest. Acid still fresh in the back of her throat, it wouldn't help her own gut to mention Shawn's exposed viscera. 

 

And it wouldn't hustle her partner closer to his reveal – a new guilt stirring across his face once more. That emotion now pinched the back of Juliet's neck and she clasped her arms around herself as Carlton clearly pushed himself to continue. 

 

“You read my report.”

 

Not entirely a question, but Juliet nodded. Carlton's blunt descriptions of the house, subbasement, and capture of Kulish had taken up six pages. Though Juliet had been there first-hand to see most of the horror, reading about it through her partner's recall had been equally horrifying. 

 

Carlton looked at her steadily. “You remember what I wrote... about what we'd found upstairs.”

 

Three children, their small bodies left rotting among the toys they'd played with. She understood why Carlton had kept her from that scene even though she'd hated that he may have viewed her as incapable of handling it. But then, considering her reaction to the current victim, maybe he'd had a point.

 

Her partner wasn't speaking. He was just looking at her, both eyebrows raised slightly as he tilted back his head. 

 

Juliet rubbed her elbows. “The children. You'd thought Kulish had murdered them at least three weeks before he'd captured Shawn, given the decomposition. The ME confirmed it during his autopsy the next day.”

 

“And what else had I said about them?”

 

Really? They were going to do this now? About to call him on his “Junior Partner in Training” approach, Juliet flashed on the notation in the file as well as the terrible significance.

 

“They'd been beheaded... none of the skulls had been found...” She swallowed, tasting the sick on her tongue. “Carlton, Kulish didn't decapitate his victims...” And his victims had all been young males, whereas two of the three children found had been female, and all of them under the age of thirteen.

 

The victim in the grass behind them. Young, her body intact save for her head. Carlton nodded at her, finally verbalizing her realization – giving it life. 

 

“Kulish wasn't working alone.”


	20. Marinate On This

Teeny tiny droplets of sweat on his temples were beginning to threaten his hair which would, in turn, threaten the integrity of his hair gel. And yet, hair gel was oh so far down the knuckle gauge of value at the moment. A scandalous thought, really. So unlike him. But then, what he was doing was so unlike him too. Damn near out of body/ abducted by pod people uncharacteristic.

 

Shawn grunted, heaving back with all the strained power of his shaky muscles and underweight frame... and yelped as the wrench slipped, sending his backside hard against the concrete. The deepest, darkest bruises had finally faded and here he was seeking out replacements so soon. Truly he was a fickle lover.

 

Not his best. Nothing worth repeating out loud, which was still a skill he was working to recover along with his humor. Dad had cut him more slack than he'd have ever expected in that regard – no doubt mom's influence stepping in front of the impulse to manhandle conversation. Gus had been better, even. He'd filled in before when an overwhelming situation had taken away words and will and this time was no different save for the length of silence. At least Shawn could manage full sentences now. More or less.

 

The rounded off ache was pulling tightness through his lower belly again. Shawn cradled an arm around his knotted gut and held his breath. He should have taken his medication before starting this project. Well if he hadn't learned after the past four months, he wasn't likely to change now. Baby increment by baby increment, the deeper clench began to ease off. Breaths were stilted, but he could move again.

 

Using the bumper of his dad's truck as a lever, Shawn cautiously put his feet beneath himself and pushed with his knees to stand. Mostly stand, though primarily he draped over the open engine compartment of the old Ford. Back where he'd started. It had taken eight minutes of fiddling, the first time around, to one-handed gimmick the head of the wrench around the stuck bolt while bracing himself in place with his right arm. He tapped the wrench against the engine block – then stopped when the piercing ring made him wince. Behind him, the screen door cracked against the frame, but he didn't have the energy to act natural.

 

“Shawn, what the hell are you doing? Is that my good pruning shears?”

 

Shawn held up the “wrench”. Okay, so he hadn't really given much attention to the tool he'd scored from his dad's dented red tool chest. He'd bumped around until his fingers had latched on something with moving parts. He wasn't that damn thick that he couldn't differentiate an honest wrench from a pair of oversized scissors. He just... didn't care. Hefting the shears from the engine block, it was only then he noted the crease in the lower jaw of the tool. Oops?

 

His father snatched the shears, letting out a small noise somewhere between a long-suffering sigh and a short-tempered curse. The formerly good pruning shears made a lovely arc as they were lofted back in the direction of the tool chest – falling short by about a foot and skidding off somewhere into the hazy dark of the garage. “What are you trying to do with those anyhow?”

 

Shawn nodded towards the engine. “Bolt.”

 

Leaning in, Henry eyed the little project. “Care to explain why you're trying to remove the injection pump?”

 

He was being proactive, obviously. Digging for a reply, Shawn finally shrugged (his left shoulder – he'd learned not to make that mistake twice) and licked his lips. “It was dirty.”

 

Closer to the truth was that he was bored. Which had surprised him, actually. He hadn't anticipated “bored” in spite of a lifetime spent dodging it. He'd even developed a terrible habit of napping during the afternoon! And not the adventurous kind either with chips and water pistols but carefully planned spans of unconsciousness on actual cushy surfaces like the couch or his bed.

 

But even “bored” couldn't quite explain the sudden urge to go full on grease monkey. Aside from that very short stint at Meineke, and seriously, who knew a single forgotten spark plug could be so freaking important, he'd never held much interest in the mechanical arts.

 

He'd never gone this long without activity. Something... beyond walking the boardwalk, and watching TV with Gus, and sharing those loooooong non conversations with his dad that usually ended one of them going to bed early and neither of them sleeping. He was jumping out of his skin and hating the fact that he'd immediately gone to that as his metaphor.

 

His dad reached for his arm and Shawn started to pull back before stilling himself.

 

“Come on. If you're bored you can help me fix lunch.”

 

Oh yay. This was the cure for restlessness? How about go-carts or exploring the inner contours of a giant, blow-up castle? Dad may complain about stiff knees and something something bad back but nobody could deny the appeal of a giant blow-up castle. Of course, getting the old man to have fun beyond the limits of a fishing pole and/or crime scene was about as likely as wheedling the guy into joining a garage band or taking up scrapbooking.

 

Sandwiches this time. Tuna and green olives on whole wheat. Dad slapped a can of Albacore in Shawn's hand before digging in the fridge for the brick of cheddar.

 

“Can opener is in the drawer by the sink.”

 

“I know where the can opener is.” He hated that can opener. Dad had a thing for vintage, three hundred year old, kitchen supplies and this particular device was the bane of Shawn's childhood. Solid metal, butterfly-like hand crank, a single hook jutting out like a hillbilly’s last tooth, it had made every can opening experience hell for him. A duty usually pawned off on mom with a large amount of pouting and whining and feigning starvation, he now found himself face to face with his nemesis.

 

He grabbed it, only to hiss and drop it back in the drawer as the little hook dug into his palm. No blood at least. Clearly, though, the dislike was mutual.

 

“Don't forget to drain the water.”

 

Really? That reminder was necessary? So once in his life in a lifetime of tunafish sandwiches he'd neglected that critical step and they'd ended up with something closer to tuna and mayonnaise soup. Wonderbread had first saturated, then disintegrated.

 

Careful to grab his untrusty tool by the handles this time, Shawn bared his teeth as he forced the little hook into the lid of the can. After a few seconds of struggle, the lid gave with a blunt hiss of released pressure. Shaking the sting from his palm where the wheel turny thingy had dug into tender flesh, Shawn grabbed the can and upended the entire contents in the bowl. Water filled tuna glared back at him with soggy judgement.

 

Crap! What he should have felt was indignation at his father for setting him up. What filled him, instead, was panic.

 

“Shawn...”

 

He grabbed the bowl and cupped a hand around the lip, keeping the tuna inside as he poured off the excess liquid into the sink.

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

Dad was watching him. He hated when dad watched him. He made certain the tuna was as dry as it was going to get before setting the bowl in from of his father to add the last of the ingredients. Wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans, Shawn turned on his heels and made a wobbly dart for the screen door.

 

“Shawn?”

 

He stopped dead, swallowing and listing on still aching limbs, before looking back over his shoulder. He couldn't keep that twist in his body for long. Already he could feel the tight strain shooting from his lower back to the base of his skull where it cupped his head in a pounding throb. He faced forward again and limped the rest of the way with his father's silence behind him.

 

Outside, the truck no longer appealed to him; if it ever had appealed to him. Activity had appealed to him thus the end result of prodding his fingers where they didn't belong. Well that was nothing new. He was supposed to be stretching or flexing or something. Dad had been pretty rigid about doing his physical therapy and would inevitably enforce another twenty minutes of muscle twisting right after lunch.

 

The screen clacked again as dad followed a few minutes later. He had two sandwiches on paper plates and a couple cans of soda parked in the crook of his arm. Unspeaking, he held out one of the plates until Shawn took it. Only when he'd stiffly dropped to the bench next to the garage did Shawn acknowledge that dad had cut the sandwich in half the way he used to when Shawn was little.

 

They ate; dad focused on his plate while Shawn chewed and watched a stream of ants crawl back and forth beneath the chipped wood paneling at the base of the wall.

 

“ _Yzha.”_

 

_The bread was ridiculously hard, but he forced it down. Tiny was more than willing to shove it down his throat if he resisted and as wretched as this was, he wasn't yet ready to die, choking to death on three year old rye._

 

_Piece by piece it was crammed past his teeth – his desperate attempts to chew hampered by the fingers clamped around his jaw._

 

Shawn swallowed the well chewed wad of tuna sandwich – washing it down with several gulps of soda and paying for it with a rush of fizz through his nose.

 

_Cold, so cold, so cold, lying on that gritty floor. He'd gotten mostly used to the smell – insane as that was. Or maybe he just didn't care anymore. All those little feet climbing around him; climbing on him. Biting teeth chewing the meat from his hands, the backs of his legs. Rolling on his belly to protect his... parts. Horrified at the idea of a bite down there, he buried himself in his mind as they fed from his limbs._

 

He looked down at his hands. In places the wounds had healed well – only thin pink scars remained. But elsewhere, especially his feet... They had caused damage. Deep wounds that had left nicks and gouges. Pocked nips of flesh. He rubbed his thumb over one such furrow chewed into the flesh of his index finger. The food in his stomach rolled. Next to him, his father shifted, silent. He felt the crawl through his skin of being watched but the memory flash from the cellar was far more potent than the concerned examination.

 

_Still shuddering – through the dizziness of hanging and the stomach heaving tear of pain where he'd been.... been mutilated. And this smell he couldn't put aside. Couldn't forget. The rich, crisping retch of his own flesh cooking..._

 

The plate fell out of his hands and Shawn didn't even have time to bolt for the trashcan – lunging to the side of the bench to rid the recently chewed meal from his gut. He'd gone nearly a week this time. The memories didn't always kick his nausea to the level of purging, but they didn't always bring such forceful stench along for the ride either. Still could smell it too – that frying bacon sorta smell. That it had actually... actually made him hungry...

 

Dad was at his back, rubbing his shoulders and not seeming to mind the destruction of his peonies. Peonies – not ponies, as he'd insisted to his very excited eight year old, so many years ago, who'd already been strategizing a “get-rich quick” neighborhood trail ride.

 

He couldn't hide from this. It was pouring from the top of his skull. The memory... The first... taste... Smacking and pleased sounds as Tiny neatly cut bites from the strip of his seared body. Mostly skin and fat – not deep enough to take muscle, it had still left a permanent wedge of scooped out scarring. A buckle just below his navel and just above the greater scar. The wide gap that had carved him open when he'd been... when he'd been...

 

He shuddered and felt a dizzy punch of cold that flipped him, head for feet in spite of the patch of gravel that solidly remained beneath his sneakers.

 

He'd always confused cannibals with zombies. Still though, he felt he was justified. They were both monsters that snacked on the living. Though really, he'd always felt some sympathy for zombies. It wasn't a lifestyle choice they'd asked for. In reality they were victims too. But the Hannibal Lector types... The Jeffrey Dahmers and Ed Geins... those bastards deserved to experience every horror they'd caused.

 

He had always tried to understand criminals. Who was he to judge anyone for a full life that may have included a little ne'er–do–welling? Petty crimes, maybe even not so petty crimes that were also freaking cool crimes... those he could forgive. Hell, those he could seriously, seriously admire and maybe even make a slapped together website about with the funds from the Psych credit card ie. Gus's Visa. But murderers and rapists and child molesters... There were very clear lines. Lines his dad hadn't _had_ to teach him to know they were wrong. There was bad and then there was unforgivable evil. Those who were so far gone that the only emotions they had coming to them were hatred and contempt.

 

So... So if that was true... why had he felt so empty when Tiny had died?


	21. All That and a Bag of Chips

Sharon Sheffy toed off her cherry red Louboutins and swung her bare heels to the edge of her desk; not terribly concerned if her neighbors caught the peep show or not. She was still on “report” as it were. Uncalled for “probation pending review” had been the official word. In a rare show of quality control, her chief had reamed her up one side and down the other for the last article about the Monster and his alleged “victim” Shawn Spencer. And it hadn't really been the article that had truly touched such an apparently sensitive nerve with her boss, but the fact that she'd dared pursue this beyond the proverbial grave. An unfair accusation given that Deakins had spent half a year ping-ponging between Lindsey Lohan and Brangelina.

 

She was a rabid dog; a title she hadn't asked for but wasn't un-proud of either. She'd been called worse; The Whore of Babble being one of the kinder descriptives and easily the most clever. Editor and Chief, Albert Fisher had hired her for her tenacity to get the whole story and to never let emotion hinder research. Tears and terror far too often hid darker motives. She'd never once interviewed someone who wasn't hiding something. In all honesty she couldn't understand why the cops at the SBPD had so much distaste for her; she was no different in her approach for answers than they were. Especially Lassiter. God, that asshole. So what if she dabbled in “unscrupulous”? At least she wasn't known by a moniker that suggested she was anything other than good at her job. “Detective Dipstick” would follow him to the grave, and well earned, that idiot couldn't find his balls if he was juggling them!

 

So here she was, desk bound and writing fluff about the Mayor's visit to Washington. Nobody read political posturing. She may as well be writing obituaries. She hadn't even been allowed near the latest murder investigation. The chief had actually put Simms on that. Simms! The guy that smelled like pot roast and wore high top sneakers with orange laces; an unflattering look for any age but this guy was teetering on the brink of sixty! Before this assignment he'd been punching his card on illegal botox parties and the occasional kiddie perv. All it would take would be one good lead. He didn't have her drive to get the truth but he had that “trust me, I'm a goofy grampa” manner that people just inevitably blabbed to just to earn that proud smile and a lollipop. No. Hell, no. This was hers, dammit!

 

Man she could use some coffee. Of course, her preferred cup wasn't exactly work safe.

 

“Oh, hey, Sheffy-”

 

She looked up at “Red” Reddington who'd been walking past her desk. She smiled, “Hey! How's it going for the Santa Barbarians?” Not much of a sports fan herself but Red was a renowned roller derby addict. Plus, anything that brought his abs closer to her desk was a worthy cost no matter how numbing.

 

Red smiled. “Lookin good! They've got some rookies starting on Sunday that have a lot of possibilities.”

 

Sheffy nodded, mind already drifting as her eyes drifted down the front of his shirt. Okay, so what if he was dancing between engaged and married? A committed guy would never cheat and an uncommitted guy was... fun!

 

“Oh, wait, I meant to leave this on your desk earlier.” Red felt the outside of both pants pockets before digging out a small folded bit of paper.

 

Sheffy slid her heels back to the floor to snatch the pale pink square – already losing interest in mentally undressing her colleague in favor of getting at whatever the paper contained. She read the note, frowning a little.

 

“Who gave this to you?”

 

Red shrugged. “It was in with the mail this morning. Your name was on the outside.”

 

Sheffy flipped over the note. Sure enough, a neat calligraphy of her name was on the upper corner of the page. Already putting Red and his six pack out of her mind, Sheffy wedged her feet back into her heels and grabbed her purse off the back of her chair.

 

“Do me a favor, Red, don't sell me out to Deakins for at least ten minutes.”

 

Red chuckled as she hurried past cubicles towards the exit. Her boss was down in the mail room, thank goodness, so she was able duck out of the shared office without difficulty. Most of the people that shared that space were too focused on their own work to pay attention to her escape. The rest were used to her taking off without explanation to follow a lead.

 

And for the risk to her future at the paper, this damn well _better_ be a lead...

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

It was like a flashback to four months ago. Four months and one week – dead in the middle of Spencer's abduction and the station had been just as frantic. Just as tense. Both Lassiter and O'Hara had actually taken the leave offered... _forced_ , upon them by their chief. Usually finding the station a more relaxing alternative to his silent apartment, Lassiter had still given in to the order to “take a few days and if you show up before you're deemed fit I'll shoot you in the kneecap.” Not so much fit as functional and maybe that had been good enough. Carlton didn't possess that sad puppy face that seemed to be the main reason Spencer had kept employment the first year or so with the department. After that, he'd sorta become a... habit.

 

And no, Carlton would not accept that he'd just scanned the bullpen for anyone other than his partner. O'Hara wasn't at her desk but he could hear her voice. She was talking to Matt over by the coffee counter; sounded like she was bartering for some of that expensive dark roast he kept aside for Vick. A few seconds later, his partner walked into view, her hands tight on the back of her neck.

 

“Oh please,” he greeted her defeated expression, “like Matt is gonna part with his secret blend cause you whined.”

 

Her look flipped to squinty. “Whined? I was not whining. I merely tried to point out to him that I could always swing by Cocoa Barn on the way to work tomorrow if that would help him be less stingy.”

 

Carlton crossed his arms. “You never offered to swing by Cocoa Barn for me... not even when I broke my ankle last year in that foot chase!”

 

Juliet dropped in her seat and pushed the hair off her shoulders long enough to twist it up with a clip at the back of her head. “It was a sprain, and it doesn't matter anyway; he's allergic to chocolate.”

 

Like that had anything to do with it! Of course, now Carlton couldn't wipe away the decadent image of those signature hot cocoa truffles with the marshmallow whip topping. Unaware of his drooling, O'Hara had started going through one of the files on her desk. Knowing what she was probably looking at was enough to dry up the Pavlov response.

 

The last two weeks had been mostly spent on the valley beheading case. They'd kept it from the press a full three days before the story finally broke. That press bitch, Sheffy, had been front and center – immediately drawing allusions between the new killing and the Kulish case even though nothing had been said about any suspected connection. Dumb luck or way smarter than she looked; amidst the usual conspiracy theory garbage, the woman had actually hit closer to the mark than any of the other sensationalist rags.

 

He took a gulp of his coffee and acknowledged that O'Hara had maybe had a point about bartering for the good stuff. Which... actually... might still work in his favor.

 

“You know, The Bean Cave is on your regular route to the station...”

 

The look she returned to him was reprimand worthy but the last time he'd reminded her of the “Junior” in her title, she'd twisted the skin on the back of his hand so hard it had left a mark for three days. Plus, he'd always found that logic paved many a road on the highway of confrontation.

 

“Look, all I'm saying is that you have two weeks worth of discount punches left on your coffee card so why not put them to good use?”

 

“You've been keeping tabs on my coffee card usage?” Her eyebrow hiked and she actually had the poor taste to grab her purse from her desk to inventory the contents.

 

“Oh please, I didn't go through your purse. And for the record, you invited low life scum to my birthday party after snooping through my desk for personal information.”

 

O'Hara gaped. “Oh... my God. You just will not let that drop, will you.”

 

Carlton didn't even blink. “Never.”

 

He was feeling on top of the situation now. He could see the light of day and it was good. It was great, actually... and then she smiled. That half a lip smile with an expression that made the back of his ears itch.

 

“What?”

 

Juliet folded her arms. “I have a deal.”

 

Carlton hated deals. Deals were never really about give and take – each side getting a little of what they wanted, oh no. The dark, foul reality, was that the deal maker held all the cards, and had taken into account any losses while assuring the majority of the prize was in their favor. The perp agrees to testify and the prosecution takes five years off his sentence? Fabulous. Of course, he still gets sent to prison to become the love toy of a guy named “Machine”.

 

He let the words drizzle out while holding fast the urge to ask for counsel.

 

“What... kind of a deal?”

 

Shuffling her purse back into the top left drawer of her desk, his partner actually took the time to scoop a mint from her little flowered candy dish before looking at him again. His irritation at his own damned delay techniques being turned against him was only slightly less powerful than the pride he felt at seeing them in practice.

 

“It's been three months.”

 

He blinked, feeling like he was supposed to know the punchline. “Okay?”

 

He really didn't appreciate the patronizing tone O'Hara filtered into her clarification. “Since Shawn left the hospital. How many times have you gone to see him?”

 

Carlton instantly stood, empowering the entire movement with a strongly pointing finger. “No!”

 

“Carlton.”

 

“I've spent too much damn time on welfare visits as it is; I'm not about to add “home care” to my duties.”

 

Juliet leaned back in her chair, tipping her head. The look was far less Head Detective and much more Chief of Police. Apparently she was borrowing from the whole department. Toss in a weepy dane look and she'd pull off a Buzz McNab with no problem.

 

“Two weeks.”

 

Ok, really, what was with all the enigmatic talking points?

 

He spread his hands rather than ask the obvious – helped along with an eye roll.

 

O'Hara cracked her knuckles without unfolding her arms. “Every morning, for two weeks, I get us coffee. In exchange, you visit Shawn and spend a minimum of two hours at the house. And you talk to him. Not Henry, not the fish on the walls; Shawn.”

 

His lips felt dry. Horror usually had that effect on him. No coffee was worth that. He was about to say a very loud and final “Hell fucking no” when, somewhere near the refreshment counter, he heard a very wet sneeze followed by a chunder filled throat clearing. McNab's voice floated after that vile expulsion.

 

“Gesundheit, Matt. Got that cold?”

 

A syrupy affirmative from their on-site barista. Lassiter glared at a very smug Juliet across from him.

 

“On hour minimum, I get to pick the topics, and I want a bear claw with my coffee.”

 

His partner smiled. “Deal.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

The damn car was making that clunking sound again. Sharon held the brake pedal down as she revved the engine but it didn't help other than to make it clunk faster. Idiot mechanic... Pedro, Juan, whatever the hell his name was; he and the rest of his greasy crew could expect a call from the Law Offices of Stewart, Rice, and Phelps.

 

Parking her Kia across the street from the address on the paper, Sharon cut across the boulevard to reach the sidewalk. Nice little one story, though the lawn could use some attendance. The garden was worse – most of the flowers wildly out of control and spreading out past the cheap wire fencing that did absolutely zip to contain the snapdragons and other bits of color she couldn't name. Her heels wobbled in the cracks of the sidewalk and she muttered as she did a little hop to keep her balance.

 

She felt at her side as she neared the front porch; a habitual action of feeling for her recorder. Still there, of course, along with her note pad and tube of Mace.

 

Reaching up for the latch on the screen door, she stiffened, only to make a disgusted noise. Little silvery beetles were crawling all over the inside of the screen. Oh great, better not be another fucking garbage house. She'd had a run-in with a cat hoarder about five years ago. That had been brutal. Sharon knocked loudly on the wooden frame rather than open the door and risk infesting her person.

 

She turned to take in the neighborhood while keeping an ear towards the house as she waited. It was nice enough. No kids or teenagers pounding the bass from open car windows. No... people. Granted, it was late afternoon so most people would be at work or school but still, she was good at catching the flavor of her surrounding. This place just tasted geriatric.

 

Sharon jumped at the intercom screech over her head. Looking up, she saw the little gray box wedged up near the eaves. Ivy had partially buried the device and it looked as though it had taken a few rounds with the elements.

 

“ _Hello?”_ The voice sounded cracked, either from the ancient speaker or because the speaker was ancient.

 

“Yes, this is Sharon Sheffy from the Santa Barbara Independent. You left a note at my office?”

 

A pause. Like, a long pause. Sharon rolled her eyes and checked the time. If she was about to get fired she'd prefer if it was because she'd put rat poison in her boss's coffee – not because Gladys forgot to take her sanity meds.

 

Another crackle, finally, and Sharon made her best effort to squint through the buggy frame at the curtained windows beyond. She saw one of the curtains jerk.

 

“ _Oh, of course, dear. I've got the front door unlocked for you. I'd come out but this blasted chair makes it a bit difficult I'm afraid.”_

 

Of course it did. And this lead was looking dryer by the second. Swear to God, if the bat offered her a plate of cookies, there was gonna be blood spilled.

 

Wrenching open the screen door, Sharon eased around it – taking a rapid jump forward as the spring snapped it immediately back in place, dislodging three or four beetles.

 

“Sick...”

 

Shuddering a little at the crawling things near her heels, she took the three steps needed to reach the inner door. One musty breath in and out and she managed the smile that she'd used to wheedle her best stories.

 

Even if it was nothing more than a secret recipe for a long dead relative's prized molasses cake, Sharon wasn't leaving this hovel without something on tape.

 

She opened the door.


	22. Chewing the Fat

His partner had a gift for the perverse, that was clear.  He was willing to forfeit the pastry within the first five minutes.  Willing to risk the disease ridden offerings at the station after the first ten and had been detailing the requisite drug cocktails to best stave off infection when Spencer shook himself out of the absent wall staring and actually spoke.  One word.    
  
“Coffee?”  
  
Attention that had, seconds before, been shifting around a space that Spencer had probably memorized since childhood, the tight eyed focus now zeroed in on the unwilling detective cluttering up the living room.  Lassiter frowned.  “What?”  
  
Rare that the fount of ceaseless chatter was trapped in a scavenger hunt looking for his next word, but Spencer seemed to be doing just that.  Licking his lips and shaping his mouth in silence as he dug around for verbs and nouns and the endless supply of adjectives that appeared to have vanished from his warehouse.  Rage inducing that his prattle had been, watching the pathetic struggle to create conversation actually... hurt.  
  
“No thanks, I'm fine.”  Lassiter finally replied – figuring it easier to play through the inane “good host” moment and get back to staring at one another for the remaining 50 minutes of this torture.  
  
Spencer, though, didn't appear grateful that he'd taken up the slack of their exchange.  Actually he looked even more upset as he blew air out his nose and clenched his fists against his thighs.  No possible reprieve from the elder Spencers – Pops at the station for half a day and the ex missus out of state and more or less back on the job.  Lassiter's envy of her position could be tasted like bad spinach on the roof of his mouth.  
  
“Jules bribed you.”  The shock of a full sentence brought Lassiter back to the discomfort of sharing space in Henry's den.  Perched, as he was, on the leading edge of a chair designed more for afternoon naps than stilted exchanges, Carlton could feel the first stings of his rigid posture.  It was Spencer's observation, though, that convinced him he was in this for the whole hour as he gave in and finally slid all the way into the Lazy Boy.  
  
No reason to lie, Carlton tipped his head towards the truth.  “One hour with you for a daily cup of the best java in town and a bear claw to sweeten it.”  And with his admission he abruptly realized that was what Spencer had meant by “coffee”.  He hadn't been offering but deducing.  The normal reaction to the show of mysterious clue gathering was irritation but given the events that had led them to this odd moment of confidence, Carlton was surprised at the depth of hopeful emotion that surged instead.  That Spencer was able to pull out of himself enough to... see/ conjecture/ Carlton would eat soft tofu while wearing hemp before entertaining the word “divine”... said that the man was actively working to overcome the mind-freezing trauma.    
  
“Every day?”  Hard to place emotion pulled at Spencer's face.  
  
Carlton scratched the back of his scalp.  “Three times a week.  Tried talking her down to one but O'Hara wouldn't budge on this damn agenda.”  Even he could hear the frustrated pride in his voice and, again, he wondered at his own willingness to continue this enforced chat.  Not like he couldn't buy his own coffee every morning – he certainly factored in emergency stops during his daily commutes.  And yet, when he considered leaving – calling quits on this whole stupid enterprise...  
  
Breathless cries for his mother... blood filled mouth, blood covered hands, the rich stench of it thick in his nose for days afterward...  
  
Funny... how just thinking of it brought back that sweet sour animal stink.  Cloying... the sort of clinging smell that sank into the back of the throat and just... lingered.  He found himself drifting back to that hole at odd moments – a nightmare pit for the time he'd spent there – gore filled rescue all waving flashlights and blurred images.  Enough to provide years worth of dreams.  Spencer had lived that for over two weeks.  
  
If he'd only...  
  
Whatever start they'd achieved in their forced talk was gone again in the same blink.  Spencer was back to mooning at the floor and Carlton was debating a kitchen raid.  Henry usually kept a tidy stash of Hot & Spicy Doritos behind the prissy flowered china on the third shelf of his dining room cabinets.  If the man couldn't be bothered with the common decency of leaving out a tray of finger food before skipping out for his part time work detail then he shouldn't be surprised if his peckish house guests partook of whatever spoils they could find.  
  
He thought of asking Spencer if he wanted a cut of whatever Carlton could unearth from the old man's pantry.  He got as far as opening his mouth and lifting his head when he stopped – struck by the look on Spencer's face as the young man stared at him.  
  
“What?”  
  
He got the tiniest head shake back.  He refused to admit he felt an odd sting below his ribs at the memory of Spencer lifting his fingers to his temple.  The usual response in a situation like this and generally followed by some sort of stupid comment about whatever current case was plaguing him.  Psychic or not the last thing Spencer needed would be to pick up on the current case plaguing them – fucking hell.  
  
And, dammit, there was no way he was going to be able to keep this up without calories.  Maybe he'd get lucky and score a piece of leftover steak from the fridge.  Propelled by that happy thought, Carlton shoved out of the chair and took the first eager steps towards the kitchen...  
  
“Please don't go!”  
  
His hand latched onto the door jam to stop his acceleration as he leaned his upper half back into the den.  Spencer had stood as well and had even taken a shaky step his way, his face twisted up with fear.  Far more fear than was warranted given the company – he wasn't Guster for the love of Clayton Moore.    
  
“Relax, Spencer.  I'm getting something to eat.  You'd think your old man could have at least left a bowl of peanuts on the table.”  
  
The relief after that statement was another unexpected reaction; lips pushing together through a swallow and an eye averted nod as the man eased himself in a stiff drop back onto the couch.  Carlton watched him for a few more seconds, noting the way he clutched the pillow he'd pulled into his lap.  Henry damn well better get home before the hour was up.  The thought of Spencer having a meltdown  at an actual abandonment didn't sit right in his belly.    
  
A three minute search for edibles culminating into a guilt-free appropriation of pizza rolls, Carlton was still head deep in the freezer when his fingers snuck down to his silent cell.  He unsnapped it from his belt as he wrestled the frozen snacks out from under a block of salmon the size of a juvenile narwhal.   
  
He dialed blind while turning with his prize towards the counter.  The answer at the other end was immediate.  
  
“O'Hara.”  
  
“It's Lassiter.”  
  
A quick glance over the instructions before Carlton tore open the package with his teeth and dumped the frozen rolls onto a pan fished from a lower cabinet.  They hit with a series of thunks and a quick shake distributed them good enough.  
  
A small pause before his partner responded.  “Is everything okay?”  
  
“Oh, everything is great.  How is everything at the station?  You need me for something?”  Hopefully?  And no, he didn't regret that thought for one second.  
   
He clicked on the oven and let the appliance heat while he turned his attention to beverages.  
  
“No, everything's fine.  What's going on?  Is Shawn okay?”  
  
He rolled his eyes even though O'Hara wasn't there to get the full impact of his distain.  
  
“Spencer is fine.”  Ooo, ginger ale.  He grabbed two bottles and set them on the counter before returning to the oven.  And bad enough he had to make small talk with a mostly mute Spencer, he wasn't in the mood to entertain the same with his partner.  “Where are we on the...” he stumbled, aware of the ears that could be listening, “thing...”  
  
Thank God for the intuition he shared with the woman on the other end of the call – nothing Spencer claimed to be capable of matched the skill that he and his partner had in terms of mind reading.   
  
“Nothing new on the victim.  Woody didn't find any drugs in her system and there were no signs of sexual trauma or torture.  Cause of death was blood loss after disemboweling – all other mutilation was post-mortem.”   
  
The same conclusions had been made on the victims found at the Kulish house of horrors so no real surprises there.  Despite the roadblock, or maybe because of it, he was again hit by the aggravation of cooling his heels and doing absolutely nothing while an active investigation and potential future victims depended on his focus.  
  
The oven was hot enough now so he wedged his cell under his cheek and pulled open to door and slid the sheet of pizza rolls onto the top rack.    
  
Hoping to burn off a few more minutes of floor staring, he chose to lean on the counter rather than return to the den.  
  
“Any ID yet?”  
  
The huff he got back didn't bode will for his attempted stalling.    
  
“Well, not since you left the station.  Look, Carlton, you agreed you would do this and you agreed to my conditions.  Now hang up, go back and sit with Shawn, and quit dragging your feet!”  
  
“I am not,” he lowered his voice from the bellow to something more polite in deference to continued pleasant working conditions, “I am not dragging my feet.”  
  
He could just hear the smugness in her reply.  “Then hang up.  Now.”  
  
Fine.  Fine!  “Fine!”  God he missed a good old handset and cradle, violently stabbing the “End Call” button just didn't have the same angry dismissal as slamming a phone to its base.  Also, he'd managed to crack the facing of his cell on at least one occasion after a particularly vicious call with his mother where she'd berated him about the lack of grandbabies and her failing health.  Failing health nothing, she was healthier than some of the rookies at the station.  
  
Regardless of the ass chewing from his partner, Carlton wasn't ready to return to the discomfort of Spencer's presence.  The pizza rolls would be ready in 10 minutes so he figured he could take at least that long before heading back to the den.  
  
Maybe, by that time, he'd actually come up with something to talk about.  
  
  
  
                                                                                                       -~-~-  
     
  
Shawn liked hearing his own voice.  He'd never made any attempt to hide that fact and had been known to admit to it proudly.  And why shouldn't he love his voice?  The words leaping like silver fish from his lips had talked him out of fistfights in school and into the good graces of several teachers.  They'd charmed the ladies and even a few very bad people out of severely injuring his person (not always a home run but getting shot had been a sour deal from any angle).  Calming, really, getting all that verbage out of his skull even if he sounded like a wordafall doing it.  Mom and dad were used to it.  Gus was used to it.  People he met got used to it or got pissed – one or the other, not much in-between on those kinds of reactions.  
  
Talking.  
  
He missed talking.  He missed expressing and while he'd always been a fan of hand gestures he now depended on them almost exclusively, at times, to carry conversation.  He knew he made people uncomfortable.  He made himself uncomfortable.  It scared him that he couldn't force himself to do what had always been natural.  If he didn't know a word he made it up but now he couldn't even get the words he knew out of his mouth.  They hung there, queued up like skydivers just waiting for the signal to jump, only to freak out and fight their way back into the plane.  And the looks he got back... sympathy or worry... irritation because he was holding up their lives with his sputtering.  To see that look from Lassie though... that was probably the worst of all.  Not irritation, which he would have accepted – expected – but something way worse.  Pity.  
  
He still felt the heat burning on the sharp point of his cheeks for bleating at Lassie like a panicked infant.  Glad that the detective was taking his time stealing dad's food – time enough to wipe at his eyes and get the shake out of his voice on the off chance it actually functioned again.    
  
Without his own voice to fill the space around him like a safety bubble, he'd grown to depend on others to build bubbles instead.  It wasn't the same, though.  Their words stayed with them and he felt himself bouncing against the outside.    
  
“...encer is fine.”  
  
He lifted his head from his hands.  He may have lost speech but the tradeoff was in listening.  A chronic eavesdropper since childhood, he found himself picking up on many a whispered conversation, now.  Lassie's barely there mutterings immediately caught his attention and he stealthily slid from the couch to hunch next to the threshold separating the den from the kitchen.       
  
Easy enough to figure out who Lassiter was speaking to.  Jules.  He missed her.  He saw her now and then when she was able to stop by but... but having her there and not being able to have an actual conversation...  it left him all... aflunder.   
  
“Where are we on the... thing?”  
  
Shawn stiffened.  The guy hadn't managed an undercover assignment since 2005, subtly was absolutely not a skill set Lassie possessed.  In his charming attempt to be delicate the man had managed to send up more signal flares than the Titanic and God help him for resorting to such an overused analogy but the Powers That Be should cut him a little slack cause Shawn was feeling a little thin on the clever comparisons.    
    
Lassie wasn't the type to go all touchy-feely around the afflicted.  He'd been known to draw down on a dying woman without a blink and the last time he'd offered comfort it had involved a monologue about his first boom stick.  Okay, in retrospect that hadn't been so bad actually.  
  
But this thing, right here, right now?  The whole attempt at secret keeping?  It had the fine hairs standing up straight on the back of Shawn's neck.  
  
Something was going on.  Why else would Lassiter be all cagey about standard issue cop chat?  Since when would Lassie care if discussions of robbery, murder, and mayhem might trigger squeamishness in the skittish whiners hovering in the nose bleeds?  That he was being so overt with his covert...  
  
The call ended with a short fuse mash of finger against cell phone glass.  Shawn gulped and edged himself back into the depths of the living room and its comforting cluster of dead animals and dad dust.   
  
He didn't really sit so much as unhinge and drop – springs ratcheting under the impact of his body on the cushions.  He didn't know anything, he really didn't.  But... but something in the way Lassiter had spoken...  
  
Shawn rubbed his hands roughly over his face before resting his elbows on his knees and letting his fingers dangle loose between them.  
  
And then he frowned, staring at his hands.  
  
They were shaking.


	23. That Gut Churning Sensation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains references to Viagra Falls

Soft hair. Softer, now, with the stiffness of product rinsed from the strands. The stiffness of red washed away, water fading from pink to clear. Better now. Soft now. Quiet now. Quiet was best. None of the sounds – the gibbering growls and yelps and groans – sounds were such meaningless expression. So pointless.

 

The smell took longer to fade. Never could get used to that smell. A wonder _He_ had lived in it like it was no worse than the roses that grew in the garden outside. Used to grow, anyway. And yet, there was something of that stink of metal sweet, clinging inside every breath. It was a new sensation and, strange though it was... thrilling. This new control. To be the hunter and not just the scavenger.

 

Pulling brown hair up in a ponytail, always catching under the thick glasses. Mother had called it golden brown. Golden, like sunlight. Her golden treasure.

 

A shudder... memory of touch like spider legs...

 

Methodical brushing of the hair scraped the memory away again. So much uselessness in memory. Memory was only pain and sadness. Memory was watching everything beloved die or sour. Better, instead, to pursue what was fresh. And of memories retained, only that soft silk, passing through fingers and the teeth of a comb.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

The title of “worst week ever” had long been established during the summer of 83', but the past 4 days were definitely a contender for worst work related week. Short of losing his badge, again, Lassiter would be hard pressed to label a more soul sucking series of days.

 

It had started with another body turning up off the 101; discovered by a couple of teens that would probably need several years of therapy after literally stumbling over the crime scene. And then old Chief Wilkins had been found dead on his boat. Stretched thin already trying to track down a child murderer, Chief Vick had called in additional backup from the stone age. Peters and Boone – like having a geriatric Spencer and Guster mucking up the works – a horrifying peek into the future if there ever was. Between Henry's jealous hero-worship and O'Hara's school girl blush at every hackneyed compliment slash sexual harassment – if he never saw those two fossils again it would be too soon.

 

Speaking of Spencer, he'd been more than ready to skip out on all three weekly welfare checks only for O'Hara to nix that solid plan with a perky reminder that “it's only an hour and you can afford a lunch break since Peters and Boone closed the Wilkins murder and if you still want that bear claw tomorrow you'd better move it, buster.”

 

Spencer hadn't seemed upset that there would only be a single visit that week, nor had Lassiter felt the least bit of guilt for doing his real job rather than this pointless hand-holding. Still, when Spencer had seen him at the door, Lassiter had been taken aback at the amount of delight that had filled the kid's face.

 

Henry had stuck close to home that time around, at least. With the murder of his old chief squared away, the Elder Spencer had offered to fix lunch for the three of them. It wasn't his habit to get his emotions in a knot over the other people's personal traumas, but even Lassiter was willing to give Henry a few minutes of grief at the loss of Wilkins. While he hadn't been exceptionally close to his former chief, Henry was going through something that every cop could relate to. The pain of seeing a brother go down.

 

They'd had burgers at the outdoor table – Lassiter and Henry wolfing down two each while Junior had devoured half, gone pale, and had pushed the rest away. Though he'd looked ready to upchuck, Spencer had managed to keep it inside. At least while Lassiter had been there, anyhow.

 

The roll of Tums in his glove compartment had been Lassiter's next stop after leaving the house. Good as the burgers had been, they'd sat like hard lumps in his gut and were a regret he'd carried for the remainder of the work day.

 

He'd spent the night with a bottle of Pepto as company. He knew many of the officers were getting together at Tom Blair's to drink a toast (or several) to old Chief Wilkins, but Lassiter didn't have the will or the stomach for such a gathering. Funny, how he'd assumed Spencer would be the one tossing his cookies earlier that day, only to have the evening end with his own face inches from a toilet seat.

 

Morning was no improvement on Lassiter's mood or gut – feet dragging him through the doors of the station more by habit than will. The mildly burnt stink of bullpen coffee made an unpleasant fold in his middle and he waved off Buzz and his go-getter mug of steaming java with an almost violent flap of his fingers.

 

He never even made it to his desk. He'd have dove for a trashcan had he any less dignity. As it was, the bathroom was a matter of a hard run down the hall – thank God for the custom tread on his shoes or he'd have skidded into a wall for sure. Even more gratitude towards the unconfirmed entity that the bathroom was empty. Good thing the seats came without lids because he ran out of time three seconds after entering the nearest stall. Damn Matt and his so-called “cold”, that son of a bitch had been harboring some sort of swine flu and wasn't it just like the man to share his special blend.

 

There were days he could remember with more fondness than this. Like the first time a girl slapped him or that time his mother announced she'd switched teams. Granted, he'd gotten over that and loved Althea nearly as much as his mother, but that hadn't made the initial reveal any less awkward. Why mom just couldn't use a damn sock like everyone else – like it being her own house had anything to do with the rules of decency.

 

The death march back towards his desk had so much less enthusiasm than when he'd first arrived.

 

“Lassiter.” Vick gave a two finger summons from her office door – detouring his destination away from his sanctuary and towards whatever had given her that particular stiffness in his face. He had a feeling he'd be hitting the john for a second time fairly soon.

 

Juliet was already waiting when he bumbled in after the Chief – pulling the door shut behind him.

 

“You okay?” Nose wrinkled as O'Hara looked him up and down, Lassiter rolled his eyes and sat down beside her.

 

Vick, thankfully, skipped the small talk and grabbed a folder from her desk, speaking as they opened the cover.

 

“Six this morning, a body was found in a dumpster behind the Santa Barbara Independent building.”

 

Lassiter skimmed through the first page of the report. “Talk about getting the news at your doorstep.” Silence in response and he glanced up to see tightly pressed lips. “Sorry.”

 

Vick continued while Lassiter flipped to the next page.

 

“So far all we know is that the body is that of an adult female. It was beheaded, disemboweled, and missing the hands and feet. Mr. Strode is doing an autopsy now and we'll head downstairs as soon as he has some findings.”

 

Just like the others. Great.

 

Someone was seated next to his desk when Lassiter exited the office – Dobson standing next to her.

 

“Can I help you?” So help him God, if she'd so much as borrowed a pen...

 

Skinny, sharp featured, blue nails like talons, she eyed him with all the level of confidence his flushed cheeks and sweating lip could inspire. “Um... I'm here to file a missing person's report?”

 

“And Officer Dobson couldn't help you with that?” Interpersonal skills still pitch perfect in spite of being slightly under the weather, he took note of the tall heels on the lady's feet while his mind tumbled around at the distant familiarity.

 

“Officer Dobson told me I should speak with you.” She stood and jabbed out a hand like a sword thrust. “Sally Sheffy. My sister has been missing since Wednesday.”

 

Lassiter felt the burble of his illness lick at the back of his throat. “And your sister is...?”

 

“Sharon Sheffy. She's a reporter for the Santa Barbara Independent. I was told you know her.”

 

Lassiter tightened his hand around the file in his fingers; cold spreading down his arms as tiny bumps flushed across the back of his neck.

 

Oh crap.

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

 

Bloodless, her skin was a gray sort of pale. Made her formerly living complexion almost Jack Palance tan by comparison. A DNA comparison would be incidental at this point – a snapshot of the leopard tattoo on her hip had been confirmed as hers by the sister. Sure, a lot of people could have had that tattoo but...

 

“No sexual trauma, but the hands and feet were cut off along with head. Interesting.” Woody had that look on his face that he got around... well, most corpses. While the majority of the coroners Lassiter had met had been strange, Strode was in a class of bizarre all his own.

 

Vick crossed her arms as Strode bent closer to the corpse – gloved hand pulling aside a sticky loop of dark intestine. “If you get in close you can see where the fatal blow was made using some kind of long thin blade like a dagger. Severed the inferior vena cava and the aorta. She would have bled out in seconds.”

 

O'Hara made a sound and slid a couple of inches back. Lassiter felt the churning gurgles pick up speed and cursed the timing of his illness. He'd never live it down if he ran from an autopsy with his hand over his mouth no matter who his brain insisted it saw lying on that table.

 

_...I want my mom..._

 

“Any idea on time of death?”

 

Strode stepped back towards his work table – grabbing a mug of coffee in one fluid spattered gloved hand and taking a long gulp.

 

“Hard to say for absolutely certain buuut.... I'd say, probably around nineish on Wednesday night. Ten at the absolute latest. Of course, that's assuming the body wasn't first held in some sort of suspended animation for a few years...”

 

“Woody, the woman was seen by her coworkers Wednesday afternoon.” Vick had more patience for the dingbat coroner than anybody Lassiter knew. But then, she had a habit of adopting unwanted strays so she was clearly resigned to the crazy.

 

“Oh, well definitely Wednesday night, then.” Another sip of coffee, and then Strode finally noticed the muck covered glove. A small snort and eye roll as he stripped the prophylactic and pitched it in the trash before grabbing the, now stained mug, and polishing off whatever remained. Lassiter rubbed his forehead.

 

“Okay, but why kill Sheffy? I mean, aside from the obvious reasons? Oh please, like there isn't a long list of people who wouldn't want to jab a fork through her.”

 

The glares turned to contemplation and Vick finally sighed and lifted her hand.

 

“Well that certainly increases the suspect pool. I was hoping we could narrow it.”

 

“If Shawn...” O'Hara broke off before she could finish – her face tight.

 

Lassiter held his breath through another gut curl. “Spencer? He can barely say his own name – do you honestly want to bring him in on this?”

 

O'Hara flushed and her eyes went wide and wet. “Of course I don't! Carlton, do you think, for one instant, that I want Shawn to go through this all over again? He barely survived this and I'm worried he might even have been broken by...” She gulped out the last in a whisper.

 

Strode tapped his fingers against his mug – eyes going around the small group before drifting down to his hands. He made a showy gasp. “Oh! Look at that! Gosh, this stuff just gets everywhere, doesn't it? I should go wash up.” He turned and elbowed his way through the doors – leaving the three of them behind in their discomfort.

 

Wishing he could follow the man, Lassiter stepped closer to the body instead. He stared at the open gut – debated even slipping on a pair of gloves so he could feel around the massive opening. The more his own insides prodded to escape the more he steeled himself to remain where he was.

 

What did Spencer see when he closed his eyes? Lassiter had only spent a few hours in the building and still he couldn't fall asleep without a slideshow of blood and bones, maggot peppered offal and unidentifiable parts mixed in with the stuffed toys scattered around what used to be a play room. That he was too late to save them was familiar but no less wrenching pain. That his own failure to see more than one monster in that den had allowed a second monster to kill again... and again... and again...

 

He still didn't agree with the conclusions in his brain but he couldn't face another death on his hands if he didn't try everything he could.

 

Either way, he could hate himself later.

 

“I think we need to...” Everything in him shuddered – trying to get one thing out while keeping something else in. Both equally revolting. Neither something he wanted to share. Hard to decide which was worse. He swallowed them both and let them settle. He knew, though, that he couldn't hold the two of them in his gut without explosive regret. Deep breath and just let it go, dammit.

 

“Carlton?” Little fingers on his arm. O'Hara would never let him stand alone. Not even with this.

 

“You were right the first time, partner. I... think we need to...” God, here it comes, “call in Spencer.”

 

The fingers tightened; pulled him around to face the two other people sharing that miserable room.

 

“No, Carlton...” One pair of eyes, wide and threaded with guilt – the other pair also guilted but holding his own in agreement. Vick sighed.

 

“I'll call Henry.”

 

O'Hara shook her head. “After everything Shawn went through in that...” She gulped and fiddled her fingers together; taking in the floor for longer than she'd studied the Chief. “You realize what you'll be asking of him.”

 

Vick nodded, her mouth pulled tight. “I know.”

 


	24. Trapped in a Pressure Cooker

Heat from two bodies pressed in from either side. Too close, even a foot away. 13 inches. Or 15. How many inches were in a foot anyhow? He should ask Gus, but Gus was already giving him that baby cow watery stare and tipping his buddy into full blown mooing wasn't on Shawn's agenda. Not right that moment anyway. Maybe later, when they could both laugh about it. A lot later. Something to file away alongside jerk chicken dinners and exploring underwater caves at night.

 

Juliet, on his right, also worried but there was nothing bovine about her expression. More golden retriever puppy if he had to label it. No, but that wasn't right either.

 

Dad, though... Dad looked like a grizzly bear that had just had his salmon dinner stolen by a skinny salt and pepper timber wolf.

 

“Absolutely not!”

 

Gus nudged from the left and bobbled his head towards the uneaten plate left over from lunch. Pulled pork with mild BBQ. The name more than enough to jerk uncomfortably at his insides, the stringy meat texture and red sauce was dredging up levels of discomfort and not all of them affiliated with nausea. Thank God for the endless Gus gullet. Shawn nudged back and the plate was immediately swept from the coffee table. The next few seconds reminded him of those creepy deep sea fish with the glowing heads when they'd catch a fishy meal almost as big as them.

 

“Henry, I wouldn't even ask, but...”

 

Gus appropriated the glass of milk next – only a little warm from sitting out for the last fifteen minutes. The glass clinked when Gus set it down again. A second later, though, he grabbed both the glass and the now empty plate and stood. The couch shifted down and up as he lifted from the cushion – Shawn tipping back and forth and feeling slightly like a boat at sea. The soft pad of feet carried to the kitchen – running water a smooth voice over to the actual voices rising in volume.

 

“When you called me, you said it was because you just wanted to ask Shawn some questions. You never said anything about visiting crime scenes or looking at bodies! Karen...”

 

That warm, red smell. Never ready for it slinking back. Red and black – cold. Rattly shiver of damp metal links. Iron clamped around ankles already swelling and rubbed raw – rubbed black and purple and aching, screaming, pain pulling so bowstring taut the skin ready to peel from bone – peeling... Pulling from bone in stringy shreds. So starved – literally starved... so hungry the rats had looked like scampering meals. The rich hot savor of lean meat... dark red and shiny with grease seeping up through the tissue. Torn... ripped off in hunks... It had tasted so good...

 

“It's not going to happen!” Whiplash of yelling – still goosebumps flushing across limbs most recently bound in a freezing prison of blood and bone – the startle back to his father's house took more than a second to remember where he was. Shawn scrubbed his forehead and felt a breath of wonder that his hands weren't tied behind his back – the only visible bites the old and faded marks from months ago.

 

Maybe dad had startled himself with that yell – his head snapping in a rough jerk as he gave the various cluster of humans degrees of his attention. It was the Chief he stopped his glare at. Enough fire to burn down the block, but Chief Vick had never been much of one to shrivel no matter how hot the flames. She held her hands together in front of her. She hadn't sat. Neither had Lassiter. He looked more uncomfortable than anyone else in the room. He usually looked uncomfortable unless he was the one in charge. Maybe that's why he yelled so much. Shawn squinted. _Huh... maybe that's why dad yelled so much too._

 

His father had stopped yelling now, though.

 

“Henry, you know I wouldn't even be considering asking this if we had more options.”

 

Some buried part of Shawn was tweaked at the idea of being the last, desperate option. Another part, slightly less buried, was smug about being the only hope standing between justice and mayhem. The trouble was, both of those emotions were six feet below the cellar where he was dragging broken fingernails across stained concrete.

 

Shawn wondered if he should be saying something. This was about him, after all. But then, his dad tended to make anything about his son about _him_ too. Or him exclusively. Was that why he was arguing so much? Because any plan of action would end up reflecting badly on the Spencer name? Not like there was any pride left to tarnish, though. Maybe his father was just trying to protect his personal stockpile.

 

Oh... everyone had stopped speaking. Shawn, eyes glazed out and positioned haphazardly staring towards the fireplace, knew that if he looked up, everyone would be staring at him. He could feel it, even; that cruddy, crawly squiggle of sensation along his hairline. He rolled his jaw against his shoulder before lifting himself just enough to push back deeper into the couch. He didn't look up.

 

Feet shuffled and breath puffed out – horses waiting at the starting gate for the bell to bang out the start of the race. Vick would speak next. Or dad, again.

 

Only, it wasn't either one of them. And the startle of whom it was, was enough to finally lift Shawn's face to stare at his unexpected advocate.

 

“I know you're worried, Henry. But I give you my word we... I... will personally look after Shawn. The Chief is right; we wouldn't ask if we didn't have to. But dammit... we have to! We need his help. And, to be honest... I think he needs ours too.”

 

Juliet's hand rested against Shawn's back as her partner finished speaking.

 

If Shawn wasn't already mostly mute, the earnest plea from Lassiter would have taken any response he could dredge together.

 

Holy crap.

 

Apparently it struck something in his dad too because Henry had pushed his hands into his pockets and was now letting his own gaze occupy Shawn's favorite staring spot. After another few seconds, though, he looked up – still focused on the Chief.

 

“He's only a consultant. He doesn't visit any crime scene unless both he and I are okay with it. And wherever he goes, I go.”

 

“Me too!” Shawn met eyes with Gus and nodded – getting a solid jawed nod back.

 

Vick didn't even pause. Hell, the conditions would have been expected. She nodded. “Agreed.”

 

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

 

Spencer hadn't been the one to agree. Henry had taken point on the entire conversation with Shawn the silent party stuck in the middle. They hadn't been getting anywhere and Shawn had been falling away from the conversation – impossible to describe what it was like to see a mute person go even quieter but that's just what had happened. Much as Lassiter had argued against involving Spencer before – standing in Henry's living room he'd been struck by the itchy skin crawl of urgency he only got in the middle of a stake out when the perp finally appeared on the scene. That feeling, though, hadn't been directed at some outside enemy. In a horrifying flip, he'd realized the sensation had been pouring inward; directed squarely on himself. Watching Shawn pull away from the conversation, he'd suddenly felt an urgency to engage him. It was fight or flight between the two of them – each acting a half of the whole. And in a rush of compassion, he'd demanded Spencer stop running away to whatever safe place he'd scraped together. Demand that he take up his mental weapons and fight.

 

He'd started down a new path, months ago. A promise, whether Spencer knew it or not. Lassiter knew it, though. He was a man of his word even if he was the only one aware of his dictates. He wouldn't fail Spencer again. He'd brushed right up against begging – urging Henry to see outside of his own stubbornness. A mammoth plea for insight... but the man had listened. Maybe... because the plea hadn't existed too far from fears he'd already carried. That day following day, he was losing his son.

 

Granted, Lassiter hadn't considered that he'd be hitched with both Senior and Guster besides, once this agreement had been met. He had no excuse in not foreseeing that, however. The two of them were leeched to Spencer wherever the guy went these days. As if Spencer went anywhere these days...

 

Well the house moping was over with now; for good or bad, they'd find out soon enough.

 

The first stop, though, wasn't even off the property. It wasn't even out of the house. Probably the most social conference Lassiter had ever been a part of, Henry gathered the whole group into the kitchen and passed out coffee and half a package of Oreos. Taking the good host moment like a champ, the Chief held her coffee in both hands and waited for Henry to stop looking for refreshments and lean up against the counter before speaking.

 

She spared very little. Starting with the discovery of the first body, Vick detailed everything they'd discovered so far; everything they'd suspected. If Henry and Guster were sickened by the account, Shawn gave away nothing. Lassiter wondered if Shawn was even listening – his eyes honed in on the plate of cookies at the center of the table. The really gut-wrenching thing about this being that, on the average day, Spencer zoning out on treats would have been completely expected. Normal.

 

“Is he okay?” Cut through the middle of Vick's sentence, the question brought all attention to the still silent form. Lassiter had seen the tremor through the fingertips clutching the table edge. Spencer had heard, alright.

 

Henry moved in close enough to lean in beside the stiff form. “Shawn?” One hand on the back of the chair with the other braced on the table, Henry kept his tone and actions gentle. He didn't reach for the young man though the lift of his hands gave away that he desperately wanted to comfort his son. It was enough, though. Gulping through another inhale, Shawn shuddered as he pulled out of wherever his brain had gone. He took in the group, all silent now, as well. The last of his sweep came to rest on his father, still leaning in at his side. Another deep breath, and then he nodded. Lassiter barely caught the mouthed words. _'I'm okay'_.

 

Only then did Henry rest one hand on his shoulder.

 

Chief Vick brought them back the rest of the way. “Henry, Shawn, with your permission... I'd like you to take a look at some crime scene photos. I don't have to warn you that these are graphic.”

 

It was Shawn who nodded again. Henry's hand never left his shoulder but he didn't argue other than to press his lips together.

 

The files comprising this case easily filled a box. Ludicrous to haul the entire contents to the Spencer house on the hope that Shawn would agree to work with them, Vick had, nonetheless, brought a condensed file should the chance arise to share.

 

Lassiter had advocated for this, but it didn't stop his own misgivings when the folder was slid across the table towards the three men at the end. Guster took a step back – as though distance could make this easier. Henry was the first to reach for the file, but Shawn beat him to it; his left hand flattening over the cover.

 

The beds of his nails turned white. He pulled his lips beneath his teeth but made nothing more than a wet suck of breath. And then, with a rough flip, he turned back the cover.

 

Nothing so harsh as photos, the first page was Lassiter's own report of the crime scene. Meticulous, emotionless, bland as dry cotton but the details were grisly enough without exposition. Spencer's eyes flicked rapidly across the four stacked pages.

 

Henry read over his shoulder – face tight. Guster stood at least a foot back, but was leaned so far forward he had to hold the back of Spencer's chair to keep his feet. His lip was stuck in a revolted curl as he took in the contents of the folder.

 

It was halfway down the second page where Lassiter first mentioned the connection to Kulish. And it was on that page that Shawn stopped. His eyes roved from top to bottom and back again – sickly coloring washed white. His throat moved in a constricted bob; fingers crushed the edge locked in a shaking grip. Henry's hand pressed into the muscle bunched left shoulder and Shawn twitched; allowing the page to loosen from his hold. Sniffing, rubbing knuckles across his lips, he resumed reading.

 

He didn't get far before the next shock hit – bringing to question the wisdom of keeping the kid in the dark about everything, only to pile it on him like an avalanche all at once. Lassiter could read the wild twist of emotions with far more intuition than he normally grasped the moods of others. O'Hara would label it empathy – some mystical, touchy-feely nonsense. It was far less complicated and way less mystical. Easy to recognize because he'd felt the exact same emotions himself the moment he'd realized whose body occupied their morgue. No matter how many times he'd internally and loudly verbally wished the bitch dead, it hadn't stopped the nauseating roil of guilt, fury, and strange grief to know that Sheffy would never torment them again. Spencer pulled in a breath that shook, crushed the heel of his palm against his eyes – rubbing hard – and then picked up where he'd left off.

 

At the last page, Spencer paused again. The stack of photos lay just beneath that sheet of paper. Lassiter scratched the back of his neck. He pulled at his cuffs – his heels shifting against the floor. Beside him, he felt the barest weight of O'Hara's fingertips resting against his bicep. He turned to her, his lips pressed together. She held his eyes long enough to blink – her whole form sinking just a little, before they both lifted their attention back to the table.

 

Shawn flipped back the page.

 

Fingertips slid the photos apart – spreading them in a haphazard fan. Breath that had chugged along at a somewhat steady pace suddenly began to stutter an irregular pant. Eyes that had been half-lidded and oddly lazy, now squinted narrow – chin jerking up and left. Henry pushed at the photos – scooping the mess of them towards the file again when Shawn's hand clamped on his arm.

 

The breathing still irregular, eyes still narrowed, but Spencer kept his hold – fingers gently working the photos away from his father's grip. He swallowed as he spread the crumpled edges flat – his lips folding between his teeth.

 

He took a last shuddering breath... and looked.

 

Lassiter felt an ache in his heels and debated grabbing a chair for himself but... The group at the table, huddled tight and every one of them connected to the other by a hand on a shoulder or arm. They were cut away from the officers who had brought this vileness into the safety of the family home. Breaching even these walls with the violence that had already been lived and suffered by them all in varying degrees. Made permanent and scarring on the one dead center of the horror. Reflected back in tortured eyes the bodies of victims younger, even, then the child-like man who'd once lived through what had killed them.

 

The Chief had called the photos graphic. Graphic was an ad for Kotex Maxi pads. These shots were, in the kindest descriptive, gruesome. Not that crime scene photos of dead bodies were ever cheery, they at least had the virtue of repetition. If repeated exposure could ever be a good thing. But no cop that Lassiter knew, himself included, could look at murdered children and not feel a wrenching pain knot in the throat.

 

Would this destroy Spencer? Had Lassiter traded one child to save many more? Could he live with himself if he had?

 

He knew the answer. It was the same answer he'd have for himself if he'd kept Spencer out and more children died.

 

Catch 22 was a steaming pile of horse shit.

 

With one fingertip, Shawn was moving the photos – arranging them in a row. Then he pulled one photo from the center and placed it on the end. O'Hara stepped away from the small group of cops to stand behind Spencer's right shoulder.

 

“Shawn, what do you see?”

 

Fingertips left the photos to press against his temple – so expected – so normal that Lassiter felt the echo if sarcastic reaction burn up his throat. But what followed, rather than irritation, was a rush of hope – that Spencer would actually spin out one of his metaphor laced trivia games – a prattled litany of “sounds like” followed by the burst of insight – a lead that would drag them down one rabbit hole after the other but ultimately lead to the culprit. He was so ready for this his fingers had already fished out his notebook and mini pen.

 

Those fingers were still at his temple. But thought the placement was familiar, it wasn't the face of concentration... but frustration. Rubbing circles, now, into his hairline while his mouth shaped around words – teeth clenching on consonants. Lassiter recognized the struggle but it was Henry who responded – leaning in at Shawn's left side until squinting eyes turned his way.

 

“What do you see, kid?”

 

The fingers dropped from his forehead and flattened against one of the photos.

 

“H-hands.” He jabbed at the image before lifting another; pointing again. “See?”

 

Lassiter pushed the knuckle of his thumb between his eyes. “Yeah, we got the part about the hands, Spencer.”

 

“Detective-” The Chief's tone, he supposed, was meant to remind him that they were in the presence of a victim. A man so traumatized he could barely speak. A man who had managed a gigantic feat of bravery just by sitting at the table and looking at the evidence of his own horrors revisited. Well no need because he knew all that too. He also knew that if the best Shawn had to offer was information they already had, then this was a waste of all their time. Worse, they were risking Spencer's welfare for no purpose. They should never have come here.

 

“Mmm...Mm-more...” Fingers jabbed again. “Here. J-jewelery.”

 

A glance to the right, at the Chief. Lassiter saw the same understanding he'd tried to express moments ago. He was failing to crush the disappointment from his tone.

 

“Yeah, they were just trinkets. The killer didn't snatch anything other than body parts, as far as we could tell. Look, I'm sorry, Spencer...”

 

“Lassie!”

 

They all stopped dead at the shout; Lassiter in a half stride towards the table to gather the files and photos. Everyone was staring at Shawn. Shawn was staring at Lassiter. His eyes were furious. He pushed several photos across the table, one finger jabbing towards the small stack.

 

“The jewelery... is the same!”


	25. Mystery Meat

Spencer had been right. Of course he'd been right. And it was a very rare bolt of excitement to discover that. The photos he'd shoved across Henry's table had all been close-ups. Two of them, small hands, curled and limp where they rested in the grass. The third was the ragged stump of a neck where unpracticed hands had severed the spine and removed the head. It wasn't the wounds, though, that Lassiter was examining. It was the cheap plastic jewelery. A bracelet, a ring, and a necklace. Hadn't really been attention grabbers, before. Should have been. Should have glowed in his head like neon.

 

Why strip the bodies but leave the jewelery?

 

The population of Santa Barbara was roughly 89,000 give or take. Around 5,500 of those were children under the age of ten. About half that number were girls.

 

Of those odds, what was the likelihood that three random girls, all murder victims of the same killer, would be found wearing the same make of kid's jewelery?

 

That lead, after having next to no leads, had been like fire. And in that same analogy, it had burned to have the lead chasing passed to O'Hara. It wasn't that he wasn't heading the charge to gather the evidence. It wasn't even that he was stuck at the station while O'Hara was in the field. It was more basic. The need to excise the pounding ache of guilt.

 

O'Hara had been partnered with Dobson to call on the parents of the murdered girls. Requiring a face to face both for sensitivity as well as to show the physical items. Meanwhile, though, Lassiter wasn't left without a job. There would be no release of guilt in the task, however. Rather, the culmination of his shame waited on the other side of the door before him. But there was no other choice. He had been personally requested for this duty. By the man waiting to speak. Waiting to share a story they had hoped, once upon a time, had been forgotten. And now they would demand that every scrap be revealed. Remembered. Lived through. All over again. Lassiter knocked, and then opened the door.

 

Shawn Spencer stood next to the window.

 

They'd chosen one of the larger conference rooms and the only one with a view outside. Henry had dropped some suggestions after a very long talk the day before – about lighting and space. He hadn't been okay with this. He still wasn't okay with this but Vick had finally managed his consent. Lassiter didn't know if it was relief he felt that Shawn hadn't been verbal with his opinion. Other than a few forced bits of dialogue, Shawn hadn't been verbal for a long time. And other than the choice of interviewer, he hadn't invested himself in the process. But there was too much at stake to think about that further.

 

A camera was in the corner of the room, ready to record the next several hours. Lassiter had an audio device as well. There was a pitcher of water and a number of places to sit, other than at the long table. Spencer, though, seemed to prefer standing. Lassiter stood next to the table and placed his tape recorder at the center.

 

“Whenever you want to get started.”

 

The way those shoulders flinched as he spoke, Lassiter wondered where Spencer had been in the last several minutes.

 

A few long moments more, staring at what could be seen of the lot behind the building, and finally Spencer turned to face him. Attention roved around the room – alighting on the moulding on the walls, the blinds on the inner windows, the door... A few dry swallows and Shawn blinked; looked up from beneath his brows at the tape recorder on the table. Lips worked around non-words – that now familiar shaping and seeking. Then, in a sharp blow, knuckles slammed on the table top. The arm held tight and shaking pushed down for a few seconds. Lassiter could feel how much frustration was squeezing out between those clenched fingers.

 

It was just like those painful afternoon visits at Henry's place. All the ways he'd mentally cursed out his partner, Lassiter could have bear hugged the woman, now. If it wasn't the greatest blasphemy, he'd think it was O'Hara with the so-called psychic insight. Lassiter pushed the tape recorder to the side and pulled one of the heavy chairs away from the table. Another thing he liked about this room – it was furnished with sturdy furniture upholstered in padded fabric. None of that utilitarian crap that left his ass numb after an hour long meeting.

 

Pulling his seat close to the table, Lassiter immediately removed his jacket – turning enough to hang it on the back of his chair. Ignoring Spencer, he next started to work at his tie – making no show of noticing when the chair across from him was pulled in a bumpy slide away from the table. By the time his tie was folded on the table, Shawn was seated and rubbing his index finger across his wrist.

 

Conversation had never been easy, when Lassiter had run out of other options, or, truthfully, when guilt and self-recrimination had reminded him of the real reason he'd agreed to O'Hara's conditions. Spencer battled for individual words. Full sentences were equivalent to deep sea diving without scuba gear.

 

But there were those times when Spencer had been able to speak – even when his father wasn't in the room with him to provide that obviously needed security. Even before his kidnapping, Spencer had rarely been without activity. Racing office chairs, bouncing tennis balls, fiddling with every damn item on and in Lassiter's, and later Henry's, desk... He needed something to do.

 

After O'Hara's near death, clock tower plunge, (and just thinking it still poured cold tremors through Lassiter's body), he'd seen how withdrawn his partner had become. The first week of her leave, O'Hara had refused to leave her home. She'd insisted she was fine, however, and had refused Lassiter's offers to spend the night on her couch. Sleepless nights were hard to hide, however, and after the third day of nearly falling asleep during their afternoon lunch, Lassiter had offered a change in routine. The following day, he'd driven O'Hara to a place out on Ocean Road. Guster, of all people, had been the one to tell him about the place. O'Hara's expression, that first time walking into the rock gym, had reenforced the rightness of the decision. But the most important part of all that? His partner had started talking to him.

 

A rock wall wouldn't work for Spencer, however. The damage to his wrists and ankles had been severe. While he could now walk unaided, he'd yet to regain fine motor skilled and he didn't have the grip to hold a glass of milk without his hand trembling. But that didn't stop him from falling into old habits. He may have lost his babble, but he still reached for the nearest object when he was struggling to speak. And the more.... “fiddly”... the object, the more Spencer had been able to open up.

 

Sitting around wasn't going to cut it. Without an outlet, Spencer closed up. He'd seemed okay with giving his statement but now that it was all real, it was obvious he wouldn't be able to do this hunched down at a table. No matter how cushy the chairs were. Lassiter pushed back the chair, grabbing both the recorder and his tie and shoving both into his pockets.

 

“Come on.”

 

Spencer blinked, looking up at him for the first time since Lassiter had entered the room. Eyebrows crinkled together in a sort of flummoxed curiosity, but he followed nonetheless. Crowding almost on Lassiter's heels, Shawn exited the room behind him. Back down the stairs, Shawn clinging to the rail as he hobbled a stair at a time. Lassiter would have taken the elevator but for the panic in Shawn's face when he'd led him to the tiny compartment a short while ago.

 

Descending a mountain in hard rain would have been faster but at last they finally reached the ground floor. Bonus that Lassiter hadn't been forced to piggy back Spencer the rest of the way down.

 

No sign of Henry in the bullpen, thank God, Lassiter managed to get Shawn through the station and out to his car without any of the usual suspects impeding their way.

 

Backing out of the lot, he realized he'd been waiting for the typical snarky inquiry along the lines of kidnapping or the possibility of being murdered in a field. But Spencer was silent. While checking the passenger's side mirror, Lassiter also caught the passive profile of the man next to him. At least Spencer wasn't flipping out.

 

A fifteen minute drive on a good day – made longer with the lunch hour traffic – Lassiter eventually turned into the small lot overlooking Refugio State Beach. He parked and shut off the car, letting the engine tick down while looking over the vast stretch of sand. Not many people on the beach; a reason he liked this location so much. Most people tended towards East Beach or Leadbetter. Spencer said nothing, but he had leaned forward a bit – his eyes moving back and forth. Palming his keys, Lassiter slid from the car and walked around to the trunk. Popping it with a low “clunk”, he opened it wide and leaned far inside – stretching for a few items crammed in behind the far more essential gear. Not too much work to free what he was after – he always put away his tools with great care. Moments later, a box in one hand and two long rods in the other, he used an elbow to slam the trunk and approach the still closed passenger side door. Setting the box down, he rapped the window with two knuckles. Spencer jerked before twisting his body to the right.

 

“Let's move, Spencer!”

 

Grabbing up his gear once more, Lassiter stepped back while Spencer exited. Only when he was free of the car did Shawn seem to notice what was in Lassiter's hands. Solid confusion as he absently shoved at the door behind him.

 

“Ffffishing?”

 

Lassiter smiled – and refused to admit it was in relief at finally pulling speech from his silent companion.

 

“What's the matter, Spencer? You never bait a hook?”

 

Wrong words, and too late to catch them back as Shawn gasped before locking his jaw – color washing away from his cheeks. Knowing exactly which memory he'd triggered with that blunder, Lassiter chose to step past the moment by tipping his chin towards the surf.

 

“Come on. I once caught a four foot long barracuda out here! Scared the crap outta me when the thing actually launched itself from the water and straight at my face!”

 

Spencer trailed behind him; feet kicking the loose sand ahead – some of it building up in Lassiter's 'not appropriate for beachwear' loafers. But the discomfort suddenly didn't matter when he heard the soft response at his back.

 

“Really?”

 

One word. From someone who used to overflow with so much chatter that Lassiter swore his ears would bleed, that one word, filled with such honest interest, warmed through his belly like no glass of bourbon ever had.

 

“Yeah. I'd snagged it in the side. At first it stripped line straight out from shore, but then suddenly it turned and started to jump – trying to throw the hook. I was still reeling it in so it was getting closer and closer. Next thing you know, a wave caught it and brought it right at me. Damn thing rode the surf and launched itself at me. You know, Spencer, I could see murder in that thing's eyes.”

 

He almost tripped over a loafer when he heard a tiny chuckle behind him. Eyes locked forward, Lassiter led the way out to the water packed sand. The closest people were almost half a mile down the beach – staring out at a couple of wind surfers. A few feet from the surf, Lassiter stopped and set down the tackle box. Crouching on his heels, careful to keep the hem of his slacks away from the wet sand, he popped the latch on the box and opened up one side. Had this been a planned trip, he'd have also brought along a container of squid or maybe some shrimp. However, he'd had pretty good success with soft plastic too so he tied both lines with a couple of swim baits.

 

Passing one pole to Shawn, Lassiter took a few steps left to create some space and flipped open the bail. Arcing back, he made a long, smooth cast into the bucking waves. Unlike lake and some river fishing, he had to immediately reel in his line as the water pushed his lure towards the shore.

 

Lifting his bait from the water, Lassiter turned his attention to the right where Shawn was standing, fishing pole held in the clutch of his fingers. Maybe not his best moment of inspiration – given Spencer's history with his father. But something had tugged Lassiter out here onto the beach...

 

“I remember the first time your dad asked me to go fishing.” Lassiter flipped open the bail, angled the rod back over his shoulders, and casted out into the water once more – pleased at the distance he got when a lucky gust of wind carried his lure an extra few feet. “The very first thing he told me was that I was wearing the wrong shoes.”

 

Another glance right as he reeled. Shawn's thumb was brushing over the smooth metal of the reel.

 

“I mean, what difference does it make what shoes you wear? I asked him that. Know what he said to me?” Lassiter turned back to the water, reeling slow. “He said, 'your soles are too hard – you'll scare away all the fish'.”

 

He wasn't really expecting words. He heard nothing but wind and waves as he worked in his bait. He resumed casting – speaking as he fished. He didn't comment when, several minutes into his monologue, Spencer began to stiffly cast into the water.

 

“You know, I swore I would never go fishing with your dad again. I mean, why subject myself to the criticism? Eight hours of 'lift your rod higher' and 'reel down' and 'no self respecting fisherman wears a hat like that' – the guy could be so...”

 

“Hey, ease up, that's my pop you're talking about.” Delivered soft – lacking any kind of inflection – almost like Spencer wasn't aware of speaking at all. It was enough to bring Lassiter's attention to the younger man with a surprised blink. Nothing more from the kid after that – his hands casting out his line with the same auto pilot action as the words he'd spoken. Words Lassiter could swear he'd heard before at some point...

 

And then he remembered. Standing in the tree shaded yard behind Henry's house. The first time he'd cancelled on a fishing outing with the older man. No memory of his response to Spencer's light hearted parental defense at that time, he didn't have a clue what to say now. He'd been on a small roll with his dialogue but with Spencer's tiny response, suddenly the momentum was gone. He wasn't sure where to pick it back up again. Getting Spencer to open up was exactly what he'd wanted. But he wasn't really sure if that's what he'd gotten.

 

Turning back to the water, Lassiter found that his line had tangled while he'd been drifting through his thoughts. A mixed mess of rotten kelp, sea foam, and some other careless fisherman's ancient line were all twisted around his own line and bait. Taking backward steps up the beach, he reeled and pulled until the whole mass was brought to shore. Rather than spend the next two days attempting to unbraid the disaster, he dug out his pocket knife instead and cut free his lure.

 

He wasn't unaware of the metaphor in his actions. Spencer was like this twisted mess. Lassiter's usual method would be to cut straight through the tangle – sever what he had to in order to get at what mattered. So long as he got the truth – the vital clue – that was what was important. But in doing so, he inevitably caused damage. Wounds. Pieces lost. He could bully Shawn into talking, yeah. Maybe it would even work to force a few words. Force anything, but... But what damage would he also cause? A cut off lure could be reattached; he wouldn't even notice the minute loss of length to his spool. But the damage to Spencer would be lasting. Maybe permanent.

 

Standing with his pole in one hand and his lure in the other, Lassiter watched as Shawn casted once more – the bait dropping into waves taking on the soft blue of the afternoon sky. He waited while he reeled in – his body immediately angling for another cast.

 

“You hungry? Maybe we could go grab some lunch.” Really needed to get the kid's attention before speaking – the unexpected question threw off Shawn's cast – bumbling the move as he neglected to flip the bail. The two feet of line trailing off the end of the rod spun up and around the tip where it wrapped in a loose cocoon.

 

“Huh?”

 

One of the big downsides to this beach was the lack of food vendors. Lassiter gestured towards his car. “I had a cruller on the way up to the conference room but I could use something with protein. How about we grab some... uh...” what the hell was it Spencer and Guster were always jawing about? “Japadogs?” Whatever the hell those were; God he hoped he didn't get the runs.

 

Spencer looked down at the fishing pole in his fingers. Then, sucking at his cheek, he shrugged and passed the rod back to Lassiter. Close enough to agreeable. Lassiter gathered up the rest of his gear and turned back towards the parking lot. Barely half an hour – couldn't have been more of a waste. Maybe should have tried the rock wall after all.

 

“Dad...”

 

Lassiter stopped; once more brought to a dead stop at the soft voice behind him. When he looked back, Spencer had his head down – fingers fiddling with his shirt hem. His whole body lifted with his breath. “Dad... took me out here... once.”

 

“It's a nice spot.” Not wanting to jolt Shawn from the memory, Lassiter's filler reply was as softly spoken as Shawn's comment. It was the right move because, rather than clam up like usual, Shawn took a few rickety steps back towards the water.

 

“Caught, uh, f-uh... tun-erch-fish... Green. Green fish.”

 

Just from the concentration on Shawn's face, Lassiter knew the confused species identity wasn't the usual bullshit mislabeling typically used by the kid just to piss off those around him. Green fish. Probably mackerel or opaleye.

 

“Dad... wanted to, uh... k-keep them. I th-rew all mine back.”

 

_Bet Henry loved that._

 

Shawn's head moved in a stiff twitch as his attention skipped over the beach and waves. Regardless of his required academy courses, Lassiter knew his skill set didn't involve psychology. Much as he hated the pun involved, this beach excursion had been a wash. Spencer was talking now, sure, but this babble about fishing with his old man was just another blind alley. He'd heard plenty of this same sort of murmuring while trapped with the kid at Henry's place in the last few weeks.

 

“It was another lesson. 'Rule of nature, kid. The big fish eats the little fish. Could be worse. You could be the little fish.'”

 

The handle of the heavy tackle box was digging into Lassiter's palm. He pushed his feet back and forth in the brown grass, feeling the cold movement of sand grains in his shoes.

 

“Big fish eat the little fish.” Shawn repeated, this time with an odd and very uncomfortable looking grin spreading his lips.

 

Lassiter shifted his jaw uneasily – the hairs on his arms rising up under his sleeves.

 

Spencer's mixed expression of pain and mirth turned away from the waves – wet streaks of salt water creating jagged lines across his cheeks and into his hair from the building wind. “I guess... that makes me the big fish.”

 

And then Shawn started to laugh.


	26. Stirring the Pot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It was another lesson. 'Rule of nature, kid. The big fish eats the little fish. Could be worse. You could be the little fish.'”
> 
>  
> 
> The handle of the heavy tackle box was digging into Lassiter's palm. He pushed his feet back and forth in the brown grass, feeling the cold movement of sand grains in his shoes.
> 
>  
> 
> “Big fish eat the little fish.” Shawn repeated, this time with an odd and very uncomfortable looking grin spreading his lips.
> 
>  
> 
> Lassiter shifted his jaw uneasily – the hairs on his arms rising up under his sleeves.
> 
>  
> 
> Spencer's mixed expression of pain and mirth turned away from the waves – wet streaks of salt water creating jagged lines across his cheeks and into his hair from the building wind. “I guess... that makes me the big fish.”
> 
>  
> 
> And then Shawn started to laugh.

Lassiter had faced his share of unnerving. Near the top of the list, finding a partially butchered Spencer in the pit of hell; the only thing more emotionally shocking was the night his partner had nearly taken an end over end from the top of a clock tower. He could shake it off his back like water from a wet dog. Usually. Still had his share of gasp inducing nightmares about both the pit and the tower; the former a memory in vibrant black and red detail while the latter was a water washed what-if of blue seeped streets and shattered bone spattered in crimson – blonde strands dragging out from the ruin like the dark ending to an ancient and wretched fairytale. Funny... that they were such stark opposites, yin yang, the tower and the dungeon. The princess and the prince. And he, the white knight in both of those scenarios. Inner loathing at that descriptive. Some knight. Great for those big gestures and riding off into the sunset, but the day to day was more than he could manage at times. Like right now.

 

Spencer was freaking him out. The laughter wasn't steady – trickling away to chuckles – but every little while something else seemed to strike him and he'd go off again. Anxious that talking to him or approaching him would flip the bizarre hilarity into terror, Lassiter had stowed away the fishing gear and dug out his phone.

 

Barely finished the first ring before Henry answered – old coot must have been gripping his cell in his fist for the past two hours.

 

“Henry...”

 

“ _Where the hell are you?”_

 

Rubbing his hairline never chased that particular headache away but it was a decent relaxation device. Better than counting to ten anyhow.

 

“Look, forget that right now. Something is...” How to get across the problem tactfully... How would O'Hara phrase this? “I think Shawn is losing it.” O'Hara wasn't there and it wasn't like he was the token psychic with the so-called gift for channeling.

 

“ _What? What happened?”_

 

Shawn was back to near silence again – shoulders trembling as he held back his laughter. If it wasn't for his eyes, squinted in fear and seeping tears, Lassiter would have waved it off as any other day in the world of Shawn Spencer.

 

“I don't know. We were talking about fishing when he just... started to crack up.”

 

The speaker rasped with the gruff breath on the other end of the call. Henry was silent a few moments – enough that Lassiter could hear the ambient sounds around the old man and realize that he was no longer in the station. The deduction confirmed with Henry's following words.

 

“ _I'm headed to the house. I need you to bring Shawn here but, Lassiter, you need to go easy on him, alright?”_

 

“Yeah,” no shit...

 

“ _If he doesn't cooperate, don't force him. If he gets aggressive or panics, call me and I'll meet you there.”_

 

“Yeah, got it. We'll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

Henry had waited for Lassiter from the deck of his house – scanning for the dark blue cruiser and checking his watch far too frequently. He'd known this would be too much! Damn it, since when did he just pack away his instincts when it came to his son? The kid had put on a decent show, but Henry knew he'd been riding it close to the edge for weeks. What he didn't know was if this was an anxiety attack or a full psychotic break. It was... well it was terrifying... not knowing.

 

When Lassiter finally turned into his driveway, Henry had loosened the hands gripped around the deck railing to see Shawn sitting up in the passenger's side – eyes open if not really looking his way. He was off the deck and at the side of the vehicle before Lassiter could put the car in park.

 

Ultimately, they chose to make Shawn comfortable on the couch rather than attempt to wrestle him upstairs and risk injuring him or themselves. Henry had gathered the sedatives prescribed for his son as well as several pillows and a blanket.

 

Within twenty minutes of Lassiter bringing Shawn into the house, the kid was fighting heavy blinks as his head dipped and jerked against his chest. Thank God this hadn't escalated. Not since the first few weeks had Shawn actually become violent. Henry had been warned to watch for signs of agitation. Maddie had found a psychologist for Shawn prior to returning to her scheduled route and, while Shawn had resisted sessions, Henry had managed several phone conversations regarding Shawn's mental health. Maddie had also called back often to check on their son and offer whatever advice she could while on the road. She'd be back in town in a few weeks but for the most part, Henry was on his own, and the care for Shawn was on his shoulders twenty-four hours a day. But then, that wasn't entirely new as he'd been the primary parent in charge of Shawn ever since the kid was in diapers.

 

Shawn should eat before he drifted off completely. Not a lot of time to have a heart to heart with Lassiter as to where he'd taken Shawn, time enough, though, to send a hard glare towards the detective. Henry had been furious to learn that Shawn had been removed from the station right out from under his nose.

 

Despite his current feelings towards Lassiter, Henry left him with Shawn while he went to gather some food for his son. He kept it simple given how the drugs were affecting the kid – some cheese and a few Saltines. When he brought the plate back into the room and set it on an end table, Shawn only tipped it a drunken glance before bobbing his head away once more.

 

Lassiter's hard soled loafers sounded like sandpaper on cardboard where they scraped back and forth against the faded wood floor. He wasn't watching Shawn and he wasn't meeting Henry's eyes. The man wouldn't have shied away from a furious bull yet, there he stood, with his focus zeroed in on his worse for wear footwear. “I'm sorry, Henry, I... He wasn't handling the room well and I thought a change of location...”

 

Fingers pushed into his belt loops, Henry breathed out through his nose and watched his son. “Where did you go?”

 

Lassiter had slid back to the hearth where he'd pressed his shoulders against the long shelf fronting the mantle. Henry, eyes on his son, could hear fingertips drumming against the rough brick of the fireplace. “Uh, Refugio Beach. I thought he might open up more if he was out in the open.”

 

Smart, actually. Shawn tolerated being indoors, but escaped out into the sunshine frequently. Much as Lassiter was still on probation, Henry could admit that the idea had been a good one – if badly carried out.

 

His fingertips traveled over the top of his head; nails scraping against his scalp. Foolish to believe it would somehow be easy. Madeline had warned him that Shawn would take years to work through this. Had warned him that Shawn may never get through this. Henry shoved that idea beneath the large flat stone at the back of his mind. Shawn would get through this if Henry had to wrap his arms around the kid's shoulders and guide him through with a flashlight and a .38.

 

Shawn was still restless, though the medication was taking him out fast. His hands lifted up, gesturing, only to fall back to his lap. Henry's fingers curled into the blanket Shawn had half pushed to the floor. A tug to pull it higher and,

 

“Like fish...”

 

A breathy, nonsense uttering as Shawn's head moved against his pillow.

 

“What's that, kid?” The gesture of laying his hand soft against Shawn's cheek was old and familiar – the reaction one he should have expected now as his son flinched away – gasping. No chance for guilt, though, as more words gushed out – foreign utterances last heard in the hospital in the terrified sobs of delirium.

 

“Bud'laska... Yzha myaso! Bud'laska...”

 

Rasped out and guttural, they made no more sense now as then – wrenching, as they were, when spoken so desperately. Made even worse when choking around tears.

 

Lassiter's heels scraped against the hearth again – long drags of discomfort. No reason to be here, really. There would be no statement today. Henry stood back from the couch. “Lassiter-”

 

“No!”

 

Shawn's hands reached out – managing to grasp the smallest finger of Henry's right hand. The desperate grip pulled Henry back until he kneeled beside the couch – the curt dismissal of Lassiter shelved in fear of his son having the, previously feared, psychotic break.

 

Instead of a violent outburst, though, Shawn calmed – fingers climbing into his father's grasp. He was muttering again, eyes closing as he pressed his face against the arm of the couch – tormented words almost buried in the fibers.

 

“I'm sorry... I didn't know... I didn't... How could I...?” Breath snuffed and Shawn's face scrubbed back and forth. His fingers tightened down until Henry winced.

 

“I didn't know, dad... I didn't know until... It was so dark and I... I'm so sorry...”

 

Each word peeled away – drifting towards silence until all that remained were heavy breaths and grief reddened cheeks. Expressive in every emotion but sorrow, Shawn had always battled tears the way he'd battled with his father – arguing them back with sarcasm or anger rather than letting them free.

 

Not one for subtle movements, Lassiter had moved his hand to the taser strapped at his belt as he approached – head tipped back and eyebrow raised. Whether an automatic reaction or not, Henry scowled at the threatening hover he created.

 

“Detective...”

 

Gangly fingers dropped from the taser, but Lassiter still kept some distance even though Shawn had settled. Scrubbing a thumb along the crease between his brows, Henry dropped back on his heels and breathed. Shawn hadn't released his fingers but at least the clench had lessened.

 

“Tell me what happened. When you were... out. Did he do anything? Say anything?” Something to set him off. Something to trigger his outburst. He'd been doing so well. Talking... even. A little, now and then.

 

Lassiter took exactly one step closer to the couch and shook his head. “Nothing really. Just some nonsense about big fish eating the little fish...” Lassiter scratched fingernails at the back of his neck. “Then he just started howling.”

 

Like it was a joke. No doubt some stupid quote from a movie or something. Kid was always making connections like that. Laughing at something only he could see...

 

Madeline's voice in his head again – strong and sharp and hard, _'You know damn well that a movie quote wouldn't trigger this, Henry Spencer!'_ No. But Shawn had found something funny about that. Something from memory maybe... something...

 

Big fish eating the little fish...

 

And then, just minutes ago, Shawn had said it again. 'Like fish...' What was like fish? What...?

 

It was just a phrase. Something Henry would have drilled into him from their very first fishing trip. The big fish eat the little fish. The strong prey on the weak. It wasn't cruelty – it was nature. Animals ate other animals, it was how the world revolved. He and Shawn were just bigger animals. They survived by eating smaller...

 

Fish... _“Eating the little fish...”_ Why would Shawn be thinking that now? He'd known he would be giving his statement today. Lassiter would have tried guiding the conversation towards Shawn's kidnapping – eventually. But, rather than leap into it, he'd taken Shawn fishing. Of all things, fishing. Shawn hated fishing. Thought it was cruel. Never had a taste for that whole circle of life thing...

 

He'd have made a connection. Circle of life. Strong preying on the weak. Big fish and little fish.

Henry knew what Kulish was. What he'd done to his victims. What he'd tried to do to Shawn...

 

Shawn had been starved. Fed the bare minimum, he'd been malnourished and dehydrated when he'd been found. Yet the way he ate – either wolfing it down or throwing it up. Struggled with smells and his worst break downs always happened at meal times...

 

Shawn had always had an appetite. Go an hour between feedings and he'd whine about feeling the bones in his hips. The starvation he'd endured, though... it would have been torture for anyone.

 

During Shawn's rescue from the pit... thinking of it was ripping a jagged tear through the flesh of his memory... He'd only seen his son. The pit had been a black shadow around him – hell, he couldn't even remember Lassiter's face during that stretch of time. Blood. He remembered blood.

 

But, afterward... God, he hadn't wanted to know! But his son... his child had been forced to exist in that wretched place for sixteen days. He had to know what Shawn had been through. And it wasn't the cop insisting but the father who'd spent two weeks thinking he'd never see his son alive again.

 

He'd seen. The dirt and blood. Human waste and human bones. The carved out hollow of a ribcage in a corner – flesh still strung across the slender bones. He'd seen the residue of Kulish's horrific meals. Small hunks of bread so stale it had been like wood. A couple of pans – a long tined fork. Even in reflection, Henry's brain screamed against those final bits of memory. What had been found wrapped in cloth and stored in a large freezer chest. Some of it had been cooked. He'd understood the nature of the flesh carved out of Shawn's lower belly.

 

Henry knew exactly what Kulish had been. He knew what he'd done to his victims with far more detail than he thought his sanity could manage. Shawn's ongoing silence was the fallout of that horror. Everything he'd done or not said could be rationalized based on his experience. And Henry could let all of it go but for... instinct. He knew his son. Even terrified and mute, he still knew his kid. Whatever his bizarre motivations may be, Shawn always had a reason for what he did. It was why he'd never been able to put one over on his old man.

 

Henry brushed back a dampened fall of hair from Shawn's forehead.

 

Shawn could play a con game with the best of them but only because Henry, for better or worse, had taught him how. Always applying the right lesson to the wrong situation. He found ways of making things connect that, for anyone else, would come right out of left field. Not for a second did Henry think his son's words to Lassiter were anything less than a clue. A message. Shawn had wanted to tell them something. He'd known he was giving a statement. And Henry had to believe Shawn had been fully aware of what was at stake. He'd have known that he had to share everything – even those things he didn't want to talk about. Even if those things sent him over the edge just in remembering. What had Shawn been trying to say?

 

Big fish eat the little fish. Even before Shawn had disappeared, they'd all suspected what Kulish was doing to his victims. Shawn had been starving. Not just hunger after a day or so without eating but literally starving – stripped down to desperation and hunger so deep, so raw that he would have...

 

There was an end to that thought train. Henry could see the wall where his deductions had collided – gathering up at the base in a bloody heap. He didn't want to dig any deeper. He didn't want to confirm this. This wasn't something that would help to stop the current threat so why the hell dig further? Why the hell... had he dug further?

 

Lassiter's shoes in his eye line made him jerk – forgetting the detective in those seconds. Shawn was out – meds dropping him hard. Fingers slack enough to pull away now... if he'd wanted. His grip tightened instead.

 

“I think that...” And that was it. Thought dried like ash.

 

“What?”

 

To explain this. After the torture and terror – skimming so close to death only to reawaken as someone barely recognized... This was only a crazed notion, really. To hell with where the clues led! It was a theory, only, unless Shawn confirmed it. He had no proof.

 

Other than the guilt he sometimes saw when Shawn ate.

 

Other than the whispered words over months of restless nights – words stringing themselves together now and making a hideous sort of sense.

 

Other than the feel, lodged so appropriately in his gut... that he'd found the last puzzle piece.

 

“Lassiter, there's... something I need to talk to you about.” Henry brushed his thumb over the slack fingers in his grasp. “But not here.” He tucked the hand under the blanket holding his son. He didn't speak as Lassiter helped him stand.

 

“Come on. I'll make us some coffee.”

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

Lassiter's tongue worked around the inside of his mouth. The only coffee still hot was the half inch remaining in the pot. The half cup of jet black blend in his cup had grown cold before he'd managed more than three sips. Henry, on the other hand, had gulped down two cups before getting to the meat of the conversation. Lassiter grimaced at that specific descriptive. On that chain of thought, he struggled to digest what Henry had shared. Apparently horror made him puny – who knew. It wasn't disbelief, though, and maybe that was the worst. The fact that this rang so true. That it had been the mystery tugging at him for so long that he hadn't realized he'd been trying to solve.

 

The movements between them were minute – scraping shoes and the slide of porcelain mugs. Other sounds – magnified in their silence; of the fridge kicking to life and further still, the waves beyond the beach outside. Of Shawn, there was nothing. No words or cries – no restless movement that would have been so expected. A bubble of timelessness in those minutes.

 

Henry's face was set towards the French doors – though his attention didn't seem to have latched onto any specific movement beyond the glass. Any focus no doubt fixed on the revelation. It was too real to be false. It just... fit.

 

But even with this discovery, there was no forward step in the current investigation. There was a killer with no name, no face, no identity of any kind. There were three dead children and a dead reporter and even at that Lassiter knew that this monster was just getting started. Sheffy had been a message. Whether to the police or to the paper, what it really meant was that her murderer wasn't afraid. This was a killer emboldened by success. Power hungry and living in the thrill of it. Previously hidden in the shadow of Kulish, with The Monster dead, this new killer was making his own name. Or was it her own name?

 

Lassiter pushed up. One of those lightening connections firing through his brain. When they'd been looking for Spencer – he and Henry had spoken to a waitress at the restaurant where Shawn had last been seen. Tammi... no, Debbi. Debbi with an i. She'd mentioned Shawn leaving with a large man but before that she'd said something about Spencer... _'He was a real cutie. We flirted a little but then some woman bought him a drink and it started to get busy and next thing I knew, he was leaving...'_ No way Spencer had voluntarily left with Kulish – at his most charming the guy was a dead ringer for Leatherface. But if he was drugged... _Some woman bought him a drink_. They'd never asked about the woman never... never even on the radar...

 

“How do I even talk to him?”

 

Lassiter's mind had gone far off topic by this point – already reviewing the reliability of Miss Debbi as a witness – remembering the exhaustion and distraction both present in her last recall of the events that had led to Spencer's kidnapping. Henry's worn and whispered question pulled him, quite a bit unwillingly, back on a topic he didn't feel was really his place to discuss. And whether or not the question was rhetorical, his answer back was the only thing he could think to say.

 

“I don't know. But, Henry... you need to call your ex-wife.” He knocked back the remainder of his coffee in two swallows. He'd wasted enough of his day on Ring Around the Spencer and yet, magically, he'd still come out of this mess with a lead. He had to get back to the station and Henry had to... well... drink a few more cups of coffee. The man, for better or worse, was going to have to work this out without a Head Detective as his sounding board. And no matter how much guilt he insisted he wasn't feeling, Lassiter had to go.

 

They walked back through the living room, much as Lassiter didn't need the escort. Henry stopped at the couch, however, leaving the detective to navigate the last three feet to the door without a guide.

 

Lassiter's fingers pushed at the door handle. He'd need to start over again with witness statements – read what was on file before, once again tackling the witnesses themselves. After another lesson in patience, chatting up the darling Debbi. At least Henry wouldn't be playing his version of tag team involving only himself.

 

A look back at the couch, then. Henry was standing, hands at his sides. Lassiter thumped his fingertips against the door frame, making the screen shiver the smallest bit. He lifted his other hand to the short hairs at the base of his skull.

 

“Look, Henry...”

 

The attention was several seconds in shifting from the sleeping young man to the man lingering in the doorway. Another round of taps at the frame. If he thought he were capable of comfort... Maybe not. But he was capable of action. And there was comfort in the fact that the terror of the Monster would finally be laid to rest.

 

“Take care of your son.”

 

And he finally pushed his body from the house.

 


	27. Over Easy With a Side of Hash it Out

_**~1982** _

 

 

_Momma wouldn't stop crying. A week since that night when there'd been so much screaming... crying... Sissy didn't know how to be quiet yet. She told Momma NO! She hadn't learned. I knew better cause I was older._

 

_Momma was crying and wouldn't come out of the drawing room. Sometimes she was quieter, but she still wouldn't come out. There wasn't anything to eat within reach. The last bits of bread had blue fur. I ate them anyway and felt sick after. Still Momma wouldn't come out. Wouldn't leave Sissy..._

 

_Not until three more days went by._

 

_In three days, Momma stopped crying. One of the heavy wooden doors, dividing the rooms, slid open and there was Momma. She looked so tired. Her eyes were carrying bags and there were wet patches on her dress. And her hair... her pretty hair was all up in snarls and tangles. Momma's hair was never tangled and seeing it that way was scary!_

 

_But Momma just smiled. “Everything is going to be okay.” And she got down on her knees to hug me. She smelled funny. Like when Sissy used to mess her pants when she was tiny. But there was some other smell, too, that made me think of the mice in the traps in the basement._

 

_I tried to get away but Momma just squeezed me tight. “It's okay. It's okay, sweetheart. You're Momma's good girl, aren't you?”_

 

“ _But, Momma...” Her fingers pushed on my mouth and she shook her head._

 

“ _You're Momma's good girl, aren't you?”_

 

_I nodded. Momma needed me to be her good girl, so I would._

 

“ _That's right. That's right, you're Momma's good girl. Good little Sissy...”_

 

_Momma stroked my hair._

 

 

-~-~-

 

 

Debbi with an i – Cupid short hair framing a pixie sharp face. Same shade of brown as her eyes, she wound one finger through the plucky strands while sitting across from the two detectives. His real partner at his side this time, thank God for that, Lassiter still found himself taking second seat during the interview. Just coming off a double service, apparently one of the waitstaff had called in sick, blah, blah, blah... Needless to say, little Debbi wasn't bedazzled by his caffeine free charm; knew they should have stopped for a double shot with extra sugar. Yeah, it was that kind of day. In any event, his query about getting a cup of coffee from the off duty server had drawn more fire than Hillary Clinton at an NRA convention. O'Hara, in her own, unrequested way, had apologized for her partner's “acerbic tone” while simultaneously grabbing control of the conversation. Too perky for 8am smiles had smoothed a multitude of ruffled feathers and nervous glances towards the two sets of recorders waiting to capture every word. O'Hara's bubbles and charm had even earned them two cups of coffee and a plate of Fig Newtons. Not too proud to refuse the steaming mug, Lassiter sucked at the brew while waiting for his moment to grab back the lead role in this far too drawn out investigation that felt more like five years than three months.

 

“I realize its been a long time, but can you please tell us, again, everything you remember from the day Shawn Spencer visited your establishment? Maybe something that seemed small at the time or anything that was out of place?”

 

Debbi let her hand drop from hair twirling duty and shook her head. “Look, I really did tell you everything the last time you guys asked me. I watch Law and Order, I know how this works, okay?”

 

Lassiter sat up, ready the give his opinion about half-assed procedurals, Dick Wolf, and the criminal loss of Chris Noth from the original franchise when O'Hara butted in on his butting in – his mutter of “this isn't a damn TV show” ignored by the two women.

 

“Ms. Hernandez, this is important. I believe you when you say you've shared everything you saw. But, isn't it possible that you could have forgotten something that you'd seen?” Silence from Debbi so O'Hara continued, setting her coffee down so she could lean forward.

 

“When Detective Lassiter interviewed you earlier this year, he asked you about the man who left with Mr. Spencer, correct?” Debbi nodded.

 

“Yeah – he had me give a description and everything. But I thought you caught that guy?”

 

Lassiter also set down his coffee in spite of the compulsion to down the whole thing in a giant gulp. “Not only was the bastard arrested but he actually bought it a short while later. Sonofabitch is as cold as a brass ring so you can rest easy that your hard earned tax dollars won't be wasted on keeping that monstrosity fed.”

 

“Detective...” His partner's cheerful address filtered through clenched teeth and a tight smile. Realizing exactly what he'd just said, whether or not Debbi followed down the road of those unintended implications. Once more giving up the interview, Lassiter reacquired his coffee and proceeded to chug the remaining third of a cup.

 

In the moment of silence, O'Hara steered the questions back on course. “Debbi, you told Detective Lassiter that Shawn left with Oz Kulish, right?” At the acknowledgement, O'Hara added a few notes to her tablet. “Okay, but before he left, at some point in the evening someone bought him a drink.”

 

Debbi lifted one shoulder. “Yeah, I guess. I mean, some chick bought him a beer or something. I don't know, it was really busy...”

 

“But you took the order, correct? Do you remember what she looked like? Hair color, eyes...”

 

The other woman sighed and shrugged again as she fiddled with a Fig Newton. “Brown? Maybe?”

 

“Her hair or her eyes?” Finally managing a question, Lassiter clung to his side of the interview with no intention of letting go, short of a firefight.

 

Another shrug and Lassiter was about three seconds short of shaking the woman when she frowned. “Wait – it was her hair but she had on a hat... Oh, I remember! It was one of those old fashioned floppy ones! I remember because I was joking about her, actually, with one of my coworkers, Pammy. God, what did we call her... Pammy always comes up with the funniest nicknames...”

 

Lassiter blew air out his nose and opened his mouth, only to shut it when Debbi suddenly cackled.

 

“RuPaulina! Ha ha! Cause she had on, like, the worst pair of gold sunglasses and these crazy long nails! I can't believe I forgot that!”

 

So many ways he could comment on that, that the overload of remarks ended up in a knot on the end of his tongue before Lassiter could set free a single zinger. Probably for the best as he noted down the new cluster of information. Floppy hat and gramma glasses; check.

 

“What about her age? Weight? Height? Ethnicity? Anything else she may have been wearing?”

 

O'Hara nudged him, hard, and he capped the question barrage – giving their waitress time to catch up and get past the last bit of her chuckle fest.

 

“Uh... God... I'm not sure... I remember the glasses cause Pammy talked about them for like, the rest of the night. Maybe a dress? Oh! Yes – yeah, it was a dress! Shitty-sorry... crappy sort of flowery thing you usually see on old people. Yellow, mostly. And like the worst shoes ever! Like, beige heels. Who the hell wears beige anymore?”

 

Lassiter twisted on the couch cushion; fifty dollar furniture was sinking one cheek and jabbing a spring through the other. No sign of a cat but the stench of furballs lifted from the fabric with every twitch.

 

“How about age?” Clamping down on additional questions, seemed little Debbi was struggling just to work through the questions one at a time. Yes, he could be taught.

 

“Uh... thirty five, maybe? Forty? She was old anyway.”

 

He caught O'Hara mouthing the word with a wrinkle across her nose. Old indeed. Practically geriatric.

 

One by one he managed to fill out the rest of his list. Height? “sorta tall, like maybe 5'8”.” Build? “Average I suppose.” Ethnicity? “White, but she had a horrible tan.” Nobody had noticed when the woman had left. She'd paid with cash and she hadn't been seen at the diner since that night. For all the description they were still left with practically nothing to go forward with. Gut shrieking that this was a real lead, Lassiter still had nowhere to go with it. They left Debbi to finally stumble off to her nest while the two of them headed back towards Lassiter's sedan.

 

“Well, we can either go back to the diner and try to find someone else who may have seen this train wreck or we can head to the station and try to pull up anyone with a matching description.”

 

O'Hara rubbed the heel of her palm across her forehead. “The breakfast hour is just ending by now. How about we hit the diner first – maybe get lucky with a few more details.”

 

Lassiter flipped his keys in his hand. “Works for me. I could go for an omelette while we're at it.”

 

His partner smiled as she got into the car. “Mmm, pancakes! And it's your turn to buy!”

 

 

-~-~-

 

His partner was still riding a sugar high while Lassiter himself was finally feeling mostly alive after putting down his third cup of cream infused nirvana. Breakfast dishes cleared away, he was able to flag down the heavyset blonde with the 1950s beehive of all things. 'Alice' was still carting a stack of plates coated in syrup and scrambled eggs, but she smiled and made her way over to the table that wasn't hers.

 

“You folks have a good meal?” Lassiter double checked the tag on the woman's apron.

 

“Hey, Pam. We were hoping to grab a few minutes of your time.”

 

A little taken aback, probably not used to the riffraff addressing her by name, Pam wobbled a little in her perky professionalism before training kicked in once more.

 

“Certainly, hon! What can I get for you? Another cup of coffee? How about one of our famous sticky buns?”

 

Lassiter held up a hand before O'Hara's eyes could sparkle any more – sweet mother of Bruce Willis, the woman had just put away a short stack lathered in blueberry syrup, two sausage links, and a mound of scrambled eggs! At the crinkled nose directed his way he rolled his eyes. “We'll get a few to go before we leave, jeez!” Tickle of temptation to ask if she was eating for two but, the last time he'd indelicately made snide comments along those lines, he'd been forced to sit through the gory details of how a uterus functioned during its monthly cycle.

 

Thanks and no.

 

Still the smiling professional, Pam was starting to fidget just a bit – eyes moving to sweep the area for the waitress who belonged to this table.

 

“Pam, we're going to need to talk to you for a few minutes, so if you could stow the notepad and have a seat we'll be able to move this along.” O'Hara's fingers latching around his sleeve to tug, just a little, before letting go. For God's sake, he was being polite!

 

“Pam, we're detectives with the SBPD. I'm Detective Juliet O'Hara and my partner is Head detective Carlton Lassiter. We were told you may be able to provide some information regarding an incident that took place here several months ago.”

 

Still wary with a pinch of anxious, Pam teetered back and forth on her heels. “I... I don't know if I can talk to you right now. I'm on the clock until six. But maybe if you come back later...”

 

“Absolutely no-” Fingers wrapping his arm again – this time with a touch of nail digging into the lycra blend.

 

“I'm sure if we talk to your boss, he'll understand.” At least O'Hara was standing firm on their timeframe. Another cup of coffee and a few flashes of the badge later and the three of them were sitting around a more private table towards the back of the diner.

 

Lassiter laid out his pad and pen, swallowed down the rest of his coffee, and took a moment to give Pam a once over. Nervous, of course. Even with the assurance that this was just a little information gathering, the woman was wiping her forehead shine with a crinkled paper napkin. She's wiped her damp skin so frequently, in fact, that she'd removed a layer of foundation – staining the napkin a light tan and leaving behind a patch of reddened complexion. Making certain that both of their recorders were spooling out tape, Lassiter leaned forward to go through a familiar line of questioning for the second time that morning.

 

“Pam, could we please get your full name?”

 

Another layer of foundation bit the dust in a wad of napkin. “Pamela George Harrison Scott.” At the moment of blinking, something she'd had to have gotten used to by now, Pam shrugged. “Dad was a Beetles fan.”

 

Lassiter jagged up his eyebrows but otherwise took down the odd moniker without comment. “Okay, Ms. Scott, you were working the night of July tenth, correct?”

 

The woman rubbed a finger across her top lip – smearing some of the bright pink lipstick. “Uh, I'm sorry, what day would that have been?”

 

“A Tuesday.” O'Hara supplied.

 

Pam nodded. “Yeah, I would have been working that night. My only days off are Thursdays and Sundays.”

 

Lassiter laid a folder on the table and pulled out one of the photos. “Do you recognize this man? He was there that night.” The photo was one provided by Henry. It showed Shawn posing with his father at the racetrack – looking miserable in a hideous green shirt.

 

Pam pinched the photo between two fingers, one bright nail denting the edge. “Maybe? I dunno – I mean he looks familiar but I'm not sure.”

 

The next photo was newer – taken by Lassiter himself the day before the subject died. “How about this man?”

 

Pam didn't pick up the photo – actually pulled away from it. “God... that's him isn't it? The Monster? I've seen that news report – but then, who hasn't. The things he did to people... and there was that one guy, the psychic...” She looked down at the photo she still held – her eyes now going wide. “Oh, gosh, this is him! What was his name? Shane... no, Shawn! Oh, yes, I do remember him! He was sitting at the booth near the doors. Table six.”

 

Lassiter glanced towards O'Hara and gave a small nod. Leaning forward, his partner folded her hands next to her empty mug. “Pam, do you remember a woman that night? She would have stood out to you? Someone you joked about with your coworker, Debbi?”

 

Artificially pink cheeks pinked a little more. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean any harm but she was just so different looking, you know?”

 

Lassiter sat up. “So you do remember her? Can you describe her?”

 

Pam nodded. “Tall – really tall. She was sitting down every time I saw her but I'd guess she was about five ten, five eleven? And she had bad hair – like eighties bad. Sorta brown with what looked like a bad perm that hadn't been brushed in a week. And, God, my six year old can apply makeup better than this woman.”

 

O'Hara wrote as she listened; taking over in the questioning. “What about her clothes?”

 

Fingers pulled at her own sleeve as Pam sucked at her lip. “Mm... yellow? Her dress, I mean. With a daisy pattern. And tan heels – no stockings though she should have worn something – even knee highs if nothing else. I know I shouldn't judge but I just do not get that whole 'return to the Earth' thing with some women.”

 

Lassiter frowned, “Return to...?”

 

Leaning over, O'Hara muttered in his airspace, “She means she didn't shave.” At Lassiter's repelled lip curl, O'Hara gave him a hint of glare. “Hey, twenty-first century – I think women have earned the right to make personal choices about their bodies, don't you?”

 

Okay, really not the time or place for this conversation that he'd have no foothold in or hopes of doing anything other than agreeing completely. “Do you remember anything else she was wearing?”

 

Only a second of deep thinking before Pam abruptly thunked her forehead with her knuckles. “Jeez, yes! I almost forgot the hat! Big, floppy, Sunday best thing. Had a huge daisy on the right side – totally gaudy. And she had a thing for rings too – looked like something she found in her gramma's closet. Totally retro.”

 

O'Hara nodded towards Lassiter. More or less the same information they'd gathered from Debbi. No further along and nowhere to really go with it without a name. The words 'dead end' floated through Lassiter's head and his fingers twitched to rub his eyes.

 

O'Hara held out a hand towards Pam as they stood.

 

“Thank you, Ms. Scott. Here's my card. Please give us a call if there's anything else you happen to remem...”

 

“Bracelet...”

 

Feet ready to move away shifted his frame back towards the table.

 

“What about a bracelet?”

 

Fingers circling her wrist in a show and tell, Pam's eyes shifted from focus and into memory. “She was wearing a bracelet on her left wrist. And I thought it was odd at the time but not as odd as everything else...”

 

His partner sitting back down while Lassiter remained standing, O'Hara kept her voice soft – allowing the memory to remain bright in the other woman's eyes.

 

“What was odd about it?”

 

Tongue licked across lips – obliterating the remaining stain of pink.

 

“It was small... multicolor plastic beads. Like it was made for a child.”


	28. Condensing it Down

Sixty-two and climbing, beaches already thick with a heavy blend of locals and tourists, Gus chose to keep the windows down after his Frosty pit stop. First one slurped down to dredges by the time he made that last turn into the driveway, he eyed the second and weighed the risk of brain freeze versus the chance his pal would even acknowledge the treat or, worse, hork out a desperately needed supply of calories on sight of the melting chocolate. Too late to ruminate further when Henry pushed through the screen door to wave him inside – rather more frantic than previous visits – this week had been hard on them all but the sudden agitation in the older man had Gus pulling his cell in case a call for an ambulance was in order.

 

First thought as his feet landed the deck after a jog up the stairs was to ponder who else had been invited. Shawn not much given to visitors of any kind or quantity – more not remotely merrier these days – the loud and rambling prattle struck a nerve straight through the spinal chord as voice recognition obliterated the indignation that some unknown interloper was holding his pal a conversational hostage.

 

Realization immediately overtaken by actualization as said vocalist poured into the room. One shoe on one foot bare; other sneaker dangling by the laces from his hand, Shawn grinned wide and spread his arms.

 

“Gus! Oh, is that for me??” Grabby fingers snatched the melting milkshake – downing a third in two giant swallows only for the idiot to wail and clutch his forehead – paper cup slamming down on the counter and spattering chocolaty droplets across the white cupboards. “Ahhhhh – crap, crap, crap..!”

 

Subjected to the fate Gus had barely avoided, the surge of ice-driven pain faded soon enough as Shawn took a second, more conservative, suck at his straw.

 

Seconds with only the sound of blissful Frosty gulping, Gus lifted his brows towards Henry where he loomed near the stairs. Shoulders heaved up in reply to Gus's head bob – neither one of them managing anything conversational – Gus had never managed to work out silent communication with the man in the way he had with the younger Spencer. Shawn, brilliant in most things, insisted that he'd developed a mental block when it came to silent communication from his old man. Knowing bullshit when he heard it, Gus admitted that he rarely could interpret the various shrugs, blinks, and finger waggles employed by Senior.

 

Treat finished, Shawn pitched the empty cup back towards its giver – dredges spraying out as the edge of the cup struck still folded wrists – sputtering way-laid by a beatific smile so charming and simple it nearly triggered waterworks. Gus only just held back the deluge after that delighted response. “Thanks, Gus!”

 

And then the babble resumed – words torrential and endless – pouring out a backlog of thoughts non-stop, like he'd built up a lexicon behind a dam until the stone and mud couldn't hold it back any longer. It just poured out. And like a tsunami, it had no structure beyond the heaping waves. Like every conversation he'd buried in the last three and a half months was suddenly gushing out just like those monstrous waves. There was no sense of topic – almost mundane in observation yet peppered with the intensity of detail drummed into the boy since childhood.

 

“...way the sand filled up Lassie's shoes, Gus! Dad, you remember when you forced me on that death march when I was five? I ended up with sand all the way to my armpits; not to mention other noteworthy crevices along the way...”

 

Ditching subtly, as if such a thing ever could exist amidst this pair, Gus sidled up to Henry whilst nodding towards the man's chattering offspring.

 

“Okay, what the hell is going on?”

 

Eyes still on the young man, now digging into a box of Golden Grahams filched from the cabinet, Henry ditched all gestures save the tried and true shake of the head.

 

“Gus...” Bafflement abruptly sliced through with sharp laughter, “I have no idea. Just... He just woke up like this. Couldn't stop him – not that I tried. Not that I even wanted to...” He finished in a barely there whisper.

 

Lips dribbling crumbs, Shawn let loose a minor spray with the fly-by query, “We have any milk?” Answering the question as he changed lanes and angled to the fridge. Jingle of the door as bottles clinked – fumbling the milk carton and a lurch to reacquire his grip seconds from pitching the whole works to the floorboards. A few droplets made it past the less than stellar pour as Shawn supplied his cereal with what amounted to a moat. Juggling the carton back to its shelf he awkward hip-checked the door shut again and limped back to his little family cluster still eyeing him like trout too long out of the water.

 

Still the same guy – at least in the visual sense. Still the same too skinny form. Still the same marionette movements from aching joints and muscles with months of healing yet to go. Still the same excessive stubble and slipshod hair grooming. The eyes, though. Absent for the first time since his abduction – that hooded, lost look. Instead, bright and wide – _seeing_ – in the way of active interest rather than passive habit. Speech once more replaced by chewing and Shawn worked through, first one, and then a second bowl of honey flavored cereal before his shaggy mop lifted to study his still standing companions.

 

“Oh, do you want some?” Lamb innocent inquiry, a single Graham clung to the corner of one lip while he held out the plundered box.

 

A mutual glance – realization that his single Frosty in no way alleviated the begging hunger in his belly – Gus led the way to the table. Henry made a last second detour, though, and collected two more bowls, spoons, and the milk before choosing a spot at the table, slightly closer to his son.

 

They all ate, then.

 

A week ago, Shawn had been showing all the signs of shutting down. Booking an express trip to West Haven and the unending supply of psychotropic meds and nightly bed checks. A week ago, Gus had been midway through the impossible task of accepting that his friend was never coming back. That Shawn hadn't been saved after all – the only thing retrieved from that basement a broken body – soul left behind to forever wander through fetid mud and blood spattered bone.

 

And explosive as he'd been upon arrival, Shawn was equally as silent now.

 

This sudden change... It wasn't relief dialing up the emotion beneath his loose tie. Shawn's spat of verbage seemingly spent as he sallied into breakfast, mostly silent but for chewing, Gus wasn't one to waste opportunity.

 

“Dude, what is going on with you?”

 

Deliberate slow feeding, tongue flicking out to catch the bit of cereal still fused to his lip, Shawn played out an expression most often employed when finagling employment from the Chief of police.

 

“Something's going on, Gus?” Eye avoidance now as a third pour topped off the spongy remains at the bottom of his bowl – another pint of milk splashed over the top of the minor mountain. Spoon scooped a significant portion of bounty while Guster turned his scrutiny to a squint.

 

“Shawn, do not do this right now. Especially not now. This was not you yesterday – hasn't been you for almost four months! Don't you dare sit there and act like nothing's changed!” Fist thudded down hard enough to rattle all three bowls. Henry, silent partner till now, laced fingers under his chin and waited for hazel eyes to lift to his own. Well worn and comfortable tactic, Shawn had never been capable of fighting that silent admonition.

 

Henry, though, wasn't in the game of correcting his wayward child. Rather, a different force was at play in his voice. “Kid... where have you been?” Was that a deviation in that normally steady tone?

 

Gus had been privy to any number of elder Spencer emotions – anger to cautious pride but rare was the sight of struggling tears. Not until Shawn had been taken had Henry shown much aptitude towards sentiment. Always assuming Maddie Spencer the source of Shawn's emotional range – Gus second-guessed that conjecture as Henry rubbed a thumb across the gathering wetness alongside his nose.

 

Spoon now moving cereal without purpose – weaving through milk and softening flakes – Shawn shed the painted on ignorance in favor of something more honest.

 

“I... I don't know. I mean, I'm here – was here, but... It was like everything was... weird, you know? But I... I remember everything.” Choppy and stuttered – impact of that last sentence going beyond the barely lived existence of his most recent state.

 

Zombie-like, how Henry had despised that descriptive. Comparing his child to the nightmare fantasies of the guy's favorite film horrors. Yet apt in a tragic way. Shawn had been undead since his rescue. And it stabbed just as cold – like razored ice – now as it had those first days in the hospital. To think Shawn might never, truly, wake up. That his current full presence might slip away once more.

 

Fingers had dropped away from the spoon, now. Tips went to work polishing the alleged handcrafted table top – Henry's so-called pride and joy, never mind the memory of a flea market find and two grumbling sidekicks conscripted into reassembly duty – that third leg never meeting the floor soundly until a folded square of cardboard had been wedged in place. Of all his refurbishing projects, Henry had never managed to adjust that leg or sand down the childhood scrawls etched into trim – signatures of the two underage craftsmen behind the unstable debacle.

 

Shawn's attempt to bore through the hardwood with one skinny digit a paltry distraction from the pachyderm resting amongst the three of them – so close Gus could swear he felt Dumbo's prehensile trunk exploring the smooth span of his forehead.

 

“Shawn.” Rarely so soft-spoken, Henry's kid gloves technique didn't trigger a response until his hand wrapped one knobby wrist. Grasp triggered more than attention as the trapped arm jerked – precursor to the aborted full body lurch in the chair. Peppered sweat beaded over skin still too pale as Shawn took in his father's hand and not the Cthulhu he'd certainly imagined.

 

Gus suddenly felt his third wheel status – an emotion rare when in the company of his pal and his pal's elder. Usually Henry was the outsider in their threesome – the wet blanket raining on all the fun and flippancy and if Gus needed a clearer indication of his anxiety it was the atrocious mixing of metaphors.

 

“Maybe I'll just-”

 

“No! Gus, stay, please...” His own wrist now locked down and held tight – Shawn appeared willing to cut off blood flow to keep them in this highly uncomfortable cluster of everything they weren't saying.

 

Held together in this way, one handclasp short of a prayer circle – not that Gus wasn't already sending one up, Shawn squeezing down on the bones in his grip until Gus twisted in no small pain. The hold softened but didn't break – Gus feeling his status as the piece of high end mahogany furniture, miraculously surviving the sinking of the Titanic, only to provide salvation to the flailing figure spitting salt water and willing to latch onto the closest buoyant object.

 

Quiet – so much so that the breeze picking up steam and tapping branches against the red roof tiles was enough to trip a startle through blood chilled arteries. Wonder fear if Shawn really had used up all of his words in that one, glorious vocal ablution.

 

Rasp of tongue against dry lips an opening line as chilling as the rattle of witch fingers above, Shawn poured his attention to the table top through on last exhale before looking to his friend. His smile not so easy this time and no trace of the innocent Gus now questioned if he'd even seen. Guilt, though, burning hot in the flush across throat and cheeks. Purveyor of pretense by trade, Shawn rarely put one over on Burton Guster, at least not for long. Guy able to control every tell but the blood rush beneath that white sugar coating – especially fluent in self-betrayal with that “summer indoors” shade of transparency – candy coating in need of a few more layers if he ever hoped to achieve that long sought affect of “rugged”. But whatever shame was capable of such extended lock-down to render Shawn Spencer less articulate than a street mime, Gus wasn't certain he wanted to be privy. Supportive, hell yes, to the end of time, but knowing details of horrific imprisonment so profound it consumed souls... He wasn't sure his own soul could watch his friend revisit that in retelling. Himself not a supplicant to nightmare fuel even when restricted to the latest DVD release, how could he sit there and allow Shawn to disclose what had nearly destroyed him?

 

“Shawn...”

 

“Gus. Just... I... I need to get this out, kay, Buddy?” God help them all...

 

Shawn talked.

 

Told them of waking up to pain and dark and cold. Of fear. Of a crying voice and screams and silence. Being alone. He talked about trying to escape and breaking bones. His hand rubbed against his shoulder – mind in a far off place as he talked about being burned – being seared with a butcher's mark and the stink of his flesh baking under white hot metal. He whispered about crawling through filth and dragging limbs locked with chains. Of finding the blood pooled out. Of centipedes and hearing his mother.

 

He told them of the beatings and Henry's fingers held tight – face stiff but eyes holding the promise that, had Kulish survived, an anguished father would have been the one to put him in the ground.

 

And he told them of his thirst – how it went from a need for something to chase the dryness to a panic that, without it, he'd die. How it still came to him, at times, in the night. Lunging from bed and drunken weaving down the hallway to the second floor bathroom – hands cupping under the faucet and gulping mouthful after mouthful.

 

And Kulish would taunt him for it.

 

Harder, now, the words. Talked of tortures dressed as “lessons”.

 

Gus filed away the details of what wasn't said – understanding, now, why Shawn flinched the most when anyone ruffled his hair. Noted that Henry understood this, now, as well.

 

Blood pressure not steady since the start of the wretched tale, Gus now felt bone fingers climbing up his ribs – tiny points of cold pressure walking up his back like the tread of a large spider. Shivers did nothing to dislodge the sensation – skin pebbling over and the sudden missive firing through his brain, _“Go! Get out! Before he gets to the rest!”_

 

That pause, just long enough had Gus had the wherewithal to even move, he'd have bolted for his car and not looked back. Ashy-green on Henry's face in no sense aiding fortitude, Gus felt his chance come and go as Shawn blinked through the frozen moment, breathed deep, and dragged them towards the blackest moment of his hell.

 

It was a bargain. No golden fiddle as reward, the prize was far more humble; so desperately critical.

 

The handshake on that blood-soaked horror involving an actual hand along with some attached limb. The cost, ironically, the same as that Southern ditty outlined in Charlie Daniel's hit single.

 

Nothing amusing in the drunken punchy analogy – hearing blown and vision whiting out the tiny kitchen – amazing how the acoustics of that space carried the high-pitched whine of an emergency broadcast signal right through the eardrums to skewer traumatized gray matter.

 

Wrist hold or no, Gus wasn't built to visualize even that pared down revelation without consequences – no how. Nails leaving pale scrapes in his flesh as he tore away, thank God Henry didn't let dirty dishes linger in his sink cause Gus was claiming that receptacle for every meal he'd enjoyed since his college days.

 

No need to hold back his hair, he was totally fine. Even the sight of gallbladder floating amongst the last liquid volley wouldn't have been enough to beg aid from the broken boy and his washed out guardian. Enough they were willing to wait through his trembles and well abused gag reflex – the beaming bulb pasting itself above his skull flash-bang insight _“so that's why Shawn goes the color of 70's shag carpet at the sight of meat”_ \- and his body proved itself capable of unearthing delicacies even he couldn't remember pouring down his throat. Reverse trip of forgotten meals part six, he couldn't believe he wasn't seeing blood at this point – dear Lord he did not need additional gag fuel. All pukey cat gulps forcing back the clamor of his gullet to just give in and hack out his entire digestive tract, Gus finally reined in enough control to rinse his mouth.

 

Most immediate need something thick, liquid, and pink, Gus knew right where Spencer Senior kept the good stuff. Nearly thirty years as a regular at the man's house, Henry knew well to keep a steady supply of medicinal aids in stock and more than just the gauze, bandages, and triple antibiotic ointment on hand for a certain accident prone hellspawn. Brand new bottle of Pepto – huh, Henry appeared to have added to his stash of late – Gus snagged one and guzzled straight from the tap. Relief as the minty cool coating bathed across misfiring and red raw tissues, he pondered making a night of it in that first floor bathroom. Anything to keep additional plot points from weaving their too easy to imagine visuals behind his eyes.

 

But, Shawn.

 

Even for his twitchy gut, he couldn't leave his friend alone with this. Cautious ease from the bathroom, the soft rumble of two voices speaking went a long way towards salving the jumpy panic that they were merely waiting for his return to continue the foray into Papa Jupiter's larder.

 

Meek slide back into the kitchen, must have spent longer than he thought in the loin girding department, Henry had magically produced coffee, orange juice, and a small mountain of various baked deliciousness. Bypassing the acid based liquids, Gus hooked claws into several muffins and set about replenishing depleted reserves. Adding the unlikely label as God's Grouchiest Angel to his many hats, Henry thumped an unopened and icy cold bottle of water in front of Gus's chosen skulking spot, droplets beaded up and sliding down the smooth plastic. Even the chocolate and banana pastry filling his cheeks was no match for the siren call of holy elixir – masticated nibbles washing down to soothe and replenish along with three quarters of that chilled deliciousness. No holds barred on the drawn-out groan of pure, spring fed, relief.

 

“Thanks is good enough, Gus, no need to reenact Beverly Hills Cop a Feel.”

 

Old man should have known dropping that little nugget would earn a spit take of mythic proportions, Gus made zero attempt at apology and immediately took back anything connecting Henry Spencer to God, angels, or anything of a spiritually divine nature.

 

The reward of sending Officer Chuckles off to the sink to scrub chewed and soggy muffin spatter was only topped by the sights and sounds of Junior battling his way through a full-body belly laugh threatening to tumble him right out of his chair. No kind of friend to let a man suffer alone, Gus roared right alongside – both wiping at wet trails rolling down their cheeks. Tears, too long spent in grief, reasserted their rightful place as the mirth-induced outlet of a helpless giggle-fest.

 

Eye avoidance was the only hope for either one of them – the second they allowed gazes to collide all hell swiftly resumed breaking free. Henry had long since given up on them both – out of sight but no doubt in earshot given the smile he'd been failing to hide as he'd made a mockery of grumbling on his way out the screen door.

 

Shuddery breaths, finally, taking them down off their high long enough for Gus to polish off the last of his water, he crunched the plastic and screwed the lid back tight. Their shared look, this time, managed to not elicit belly cramping hilarity.

 

One more opportunity Gus had no intention of wasting.

 

“Just, promise me, Shawn... you won't go away again.”

 

Enough hesitation to make it honest – the plea truly received and considered. And Shawn nodded – fist out-held and reciprocated.

 

“I promise.”         


	29. A Little Something on the Side

He knew he was sulking. Though not his preferred emotional descriptive; sulking implied far too much petulance and none of the raw, shamed ache that currently occupied every cell in his body. Never got used to being so profoundly in the wrong. Never could function as a cop, much less a walking talking human with a fuck up this enormous lingering overhead like a personal supercell. Just waiting for the cyclone to form from that black cloud and suck him right up. As if. That the source of his failure was Shawn Spencer. For the second time in a row. But then, should it really be a surprise that the man would be his undoing? He'd suspected that might be the case, now, for the better part of half a decade.

 

A paper on his desk, crinkled from reading, had a front page feature of their “person of interest”. Cobbled together portrait from sketchy memories, he had no great hope that this “Unabomberette” cat scratch would provide them with a flood of leads no matter how ostentatious the woman's fashion style. He flicked his fingers across the sketch of monstrous sunglasses. No doubt the coming week would log thirty thousand calls from anxious family members ready to turn in their Aunt Beatrice for some imagined reward. No price too high when it came to selling out family.

 

 

Bent over his desk for the past three hours, back wrenched into an aching kink at the focused self-recriminatory task, Lassiter only breathed out a grunt when his partner made some collection of words regarding coffee and calories. He'd already powered through around four cups of the stuff so another infusion wouldn't matter to anything but his bladder. Speaking of which, that sudden ache awakened to chastise his dedication and, regardless of the personal flogging session, pissing himself was a bit too high a price for massaging his shame.

 

Five minutes away from his desk saw a minor collection of needs met. Day old powdered donut was already leaving a cocaine joke on his upper lip as he rounded the last corner back to his desk. The final three bites slipped from loose fingers and bumbled to a rest next to the pillar.

 

“Dude, that was a perfectly good donut!”

 

The man looked corporeal enough, standing next to a stunned O'Hara sporting a noticeable sheen across her eyes... No way he'd been dodging sleep long enough to start triggering hallucinations; leastwise not the walking and talking variety. And even if his brain were traitorous enough to dredge up this phantasm, it wouldn't add the cruelty of the man's other half, certainly not.

 

“Holy shit... Spencer!?”

 

The hallucination grinned and good God he was losing feeling in his legs and his chair was too far away to catch his ass; like hell he was gonna end up drooling on the marble!

 

“Hey, Lassie.”

 

Hoping the wobble went unnoticed, Lassiter clenched the muscles in his thighs until the embarrassing tremble worked itself back out again. Nope, not remotely off his nut unless this was a shared visual event and the whole SBPD was booking a flight to Wonderland. Completely forgetting they were an active and functioning station with an active and urgent caseload, it seemed every cop in the bullpen had fixated on the two fellows in their midst.

 

Mouth a tad too filled with sand to order the oglers back to their tasks, Lassiter was saved the reprimand by an order coming down from on high.

 

“What is going on here? Everyone, back to wor- Mr. Spencer!”

 

Late arrival, Chief Vick managed to send her staff scurrying whilst grabbing an eyeful of the phenomenon. Equilibrium recovered, though now overtaken by awkwardness, Lassiter licked his lip; tasting the remains of his sugary snack still collected there.

 

Taking point on the reunion, Vick gave Lassiter the moment he'd needed to regroup while offering a tentative hug to the wayward consultant. Reciprocation was quick and zealous as Spencer clutched the woman tightly enough to risk the press of her jacket.

 

“Guuuhh... 've missed you!” He rumbled – his fingers, maybe, buried a little too firmly into her suit.

 

“Shawn.” Fingers tapped as Gus redirected his friend away from his Chief mauling. Shawn let go – allowing Vick to dust at the wrinkles in her top.

 

“How... how are you feeling?” She asked while stumbling over the query. They all, more or less, knew how he _had_ been feeling. The shock, of course, being that he could appear so... lively... with that prior knowledge of his condition. Lassiter hated attributing the miraculous but the alternative would be assuming Spencer had been faking it all along. The guy might pull that sheepskin over the eyes of the general public but there was no way he was _that_ good.

 

“Good. I'm good.” Far too casual, too... normal.

 

Lassiter wasn't the only one disturbed by it. O'Hara, while smiling, had sent several glances Lassiter's way that were easy enough for him to read. She was worried. Was this a true sign of recovery or just a pause? Would he continue from here or relapse?

 

“Why don't we gather in my office.” Despite her earlier reprimand, their little group was still the focus of many a furtive study.

 

Not really phrasing it as an option – not that she ever did – Vick turned heel with the full expectation of being followed as she led her small cavalcade of fluffy ducklings back towards her door. Holding it open and likely taking a head count besides, she shut then inside once they'd nestled into the row of seats before her desk.

 

Karen took a few moments to drop her hand from the door knob. Her walk back to her desk detoured slightly to the right where Shawn had claimed his usual chair at the far end. Her hand rested on his shoulder; soft, and mindful of the nearly healed burn below.

 

“We've missed you around here. It is really good to see you again, Shawn.”

 

The man only nodded – his fingers clenching around the arms of his chair. The Chief was silent as she walked around her desk to sit.

 

With instinct more than active thought, Lassiter took the chair to Spencer's left – Guster sitting so close to his friend's right that he was nearly in his lap. Closed in on either side, Spencer hitched up just a bit – fingertips drumming against his leg.

 

Vick had her hands folder over a bare spot on her desk. A cluster of paper coffee cups were tucked in and around the files on her desk but not a one held any liquid as Vick stacked them up before pitching the works in the small trash can at her side.

 

On Lassiter's left, O'Hara rubbed the heel of her palm against her knee.

 

“Mr. Spencer... Shawn... this is...” Vick smiled with a head shake, “This is, there's no other word for it, miraculous.”

 

Spencer pushed out his lips, jaw clacking together, before he nodded.

 

Lassiter shifted his legs; feeling the need to shake them out but settling for cracking his ankles. So loud, like twin gunshots, that his partner flinched.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Thank God, Vick decided to move things along.

 

“Mr. Spencer, I know... I know you've been through a lot. Seeing you here , now... Seeing that you...”

 

“You want me to give my statement.” Spencer rubbed his thumb against the arm of his chair.

 

Vick nodded. “As much as I don't want to ask this of you, Shawn, I have to. You know I do.”

 

It was Guster, however, who straightened his already ramrod stiff form. “Wait; you're kidding me, right? I mean, Shawn only just pulled a Jerry the Mouse.” Confused looks by all but one – the man tapping his friend in the bicep with his knuckles. “You know - “I'm Tom...””

 

“I'm Jerry.” Spencer grinned.

 

Guster whirled, a wide and exaggerated expression of shock on his face. “You _**talk**_!?”

 

If there had been crickets in the office, surely the would have been playing their little leg violins. Guster rumpled his forehead. “Tom and Jerry the Movie?”

 

O'Hara wrinkled her nose. “Oh, my God, that movie was awful!”

 

Pushing his way forward enough to see past Lassiter's form, Spencer jerked his chin. “Hey, don't diss the mouse!”

 

“They made that ridiculous cartoon into a movie?” Lassiter joined his partner in wrinkling his nose.

 

Spencer stared back, jaw slack and with some sort of response stirring though his gray matter. Whatever it was, it went unformed as Vick tapped her knuckles against her desk like a gavel.

 

“If we could...” Various expressions, from contrite to unsettled, roamed back to the front of the class. Vick breathed out. “Shawn, I'm guessing you probably saw the paper today.”

 

Spencer nodded. Lassiter waited for the quip about doing the crossword puzzle or reading the horoscopes but there was nothing beyond and tight swallow from the younger man. Guster watched his friend but remained, likewise, just as silent.

 

“I don't have to tell you that it's only a matter of time before another body turns up. Whoever this woman is, whether an accomplice or our suspect, it is vital that we find her. Mr. Spencer, I wouldn't ask this of you if we had any other options.”

 

Spencer was still silent and Lassiter could feel his throat growing tight; anticipating... stuttering, delaying, more silence. Lasting silence. A return to shutting down and shutting off. It was a fluke – Spencer walking and talking just like old times. No such thing as sudden and complete healing – no mind, no matter how determined, positive, or flat out weird was capable of such a profound reversal no matter how much fairy magic was involved. Put a bandaid on the cut but the cut was still there. Spencer may, finally, be talking again but he was by no means better. Spencer's fingers, wrapped tight around the arm of his chair and trembling, were more truthful than the cloud of prattle he'd been spewing before. Yeah, he may be talking now but the words were just the same as his silence. They were something to hide behind to keep the monsters at bay. But the monster was still coming, whether or not he spoke.

 

“Lassie.”

 

“Huh?” Staring at the man's fingers, Lassiter was caught several steps back – realizing he'd missed Vick's question. She graciously held off the eye roll to catch him up.

 

“I asked Mr. Spencer if he had a preference for an interviewer. Looks like you're up to bat, Detective.”

 

~-~-~

 

 

Same room, again. Same chair, same everything. Spencer, standing near the bank of windows and staring out at the less than inspiring view. Lassiter kept his jacket on, this time; tie remained knotted at his throat. Superstitious he wasn't, but he didn't plan on this becoming a play by play of the last disastrous interview no matter that it may or may not have resulted in Spencer regaining his tongue. The jury was still out on that one and Lassiter was hard pressed to believe that one little fishing trip to a mostly deserted beach could have triggered a recovery all on its own.

 

“So...”

 

Eyes lifted up from the polished wood grain of the table as Spencer clamped his fingers on the back of a chair across from Lassiter.

 

“We gonna do this thing?” Spencer tucked his lip between his teeth the moment he finished speaking. Lassiter gestured towards the chair still clutched in Spencer's fingers.

 

“Are you ready?”

 

The heavy chair bumped and wobbled as it was pulled out from the table. While Spencer was busy manhandling the solid piece of furniture, Lassiter leaned of the tape recorder and clicked the red button.

 

“Head Detective Carlton Lassiter, interviewing the witness, Shawn Henry Spencer, born May twelfth, nineteen seventy-seven. Today's date is Tuesday, August seventeenth, twenty-ten. The time is ten thirty-two pm.”

 

He didn't miss the pouty wrinkle as he noted Spencer's full name. Spencer crabbed his fingers on the tabletop – pushing his thumbs together as Lassiter wrapped up the preliminary introductions on the cassette. He still anticipated hesitation, at best. Silence at worst. Mouthing of words that had not willpower to be spoken.

 

“Tell me what happened on April twenty-fifth; the night you were at the cafe.”

 

Teeth dug into a lip again for just a moment before a long breath huffed them free. “Would you like to know what I ate? Cause I highly recommend the Pig in a Pig in a Blanket. Sausage wrapped in bacon wrapped in a crepe – deep fried and topped with maple syrup and a poached egg.”

 

It was a battle to hold off the string of adjectives lined up at the tip of his tongue and just begging to be set free. Had he just been feeling the crushing pressure of guilt sinking onto his shoulders like wet bags of sand? Because all he felt, currently, was the urge to bruise a skull with the flat of his hand.

 

"Just..." he hoped he didn't regret this, "tell me everything."

 

 

~-~-~

 

Buzz McNab was really looking forward to his lunch break that afternoon. Francine had fixed an amazing meatloaf the night before and he would be reaping the benefits of a thick sandwich, plus a large wedge of apple pie, in about twenty-five minutes. He wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd been eying the clock all morning.

 

Twenty-three minutes...

 

All he had left on his plate was to drop off some files at the front desk. Maybe Chief Vick wouldn't mind if he took his lunch a little early today. The window was down at the check-in counter. Allen must be in the restroom.

 

"Hello? Is there anyone here?"

 

Buzz felt his shoe skid a little on the smooth floor as he stopped his progress back to the bullpen. A peek back towards the front entrance found an elderly woman shifting from one heel to the other - a rolled newspaper in her hands. Weird little mental flashback to Nanna swatting him away from her cookies that hadn't yet had time to cool.

 

"Hello, ma'am, can I help you?"

 

The woman smiled. "Oh, yes! Hello! My name is Geena Wig. I was looking to speak with one of the officers about this woman, here." She uncurled her paper and jabbed at the front page with one knobby middle digit.

 

Thoughts of his delicious meatloaf on heavy marble rye slid to the bottom of his priority list as Buzz took in the familiar sketch. "Do you know something about the woman?"

 

Ms. Wig huffed as she curled the paper back up into a tight tube. "Well of course I do! She's my neighbor!" She shook her head, then, as her face lost some of its lively color. "I just... I just wish I'd said something sooner."

 

Buzz guided the woman towards the long bench in the waiting area. "Sooner? But we only ran this article today."

 

She shook her head again. "I just hadn't put it together. Not until I saw her picture."

 

Buzz could hear Allen's shoes clapping against the floor on her way back from her break. He'd have her issue a visitor's pass for the older woman before taking her up to see Detective O'Hara. "Put what together, ma'am?"

 

The newspaper twisted between age spotted hands - the fibers beginning to shred. "That news woman. Sheffy. I saw her the day she disappeared." She breathed in a heavy, shaking, sigh. "She was visiting my neighbor. I think... I think your mystery woman is the one who killed her."


	30. A Land of Milk and Honey

A warrant had them into the house by three that afternoon. No restrictions for their search - everything was up for grabs and Lassiter had no intention of allowing one crumb to escape processing.

 

What he hadn't bargained on - had vehemently argued against until Vick had stepped in and put her foot down hard enough to crack marble - was their tag and bag taking on two additional members. Spencer and Guster stood amidst the blue windbreakers and uniforms like two kittens among a pack of coon hounds. None of the poking, digging, snooping behavior that Lassiter refused to accept that he'd been... hoping for. Spencer only... watched. And Guster only watched Spencer. No matter that Spencer had insisted on coming with. Lassiter wasn't a psychologist but he'd seen what victims experienced when faced with triggers. And this house was one damn giant trigger.

 

"Lassiter." O'Hara wove past a cluster of CSU - a large evidence bag in her gloved hands – a glass syringe settled at the bottom. "They found this in the refrigerator. It was in the vegetable crisper and crammed in behind some decade old onions. CSU also found some vials of ketamine.”

 

"Ketamine? But that wasn't detected in any of the bodies that had been examined."

 

Juliet passed the bag to a nearby investigator. "I asked about that. Either the ketamine broke down before they were discovered or the killer didn't use it on the younger victims. That makes sense, though. Sheffy would have been able to put up more of a fight. Her killer would have needed some leverage to control her."

 

Looking past his shoulder, Juliet lifted her chin. “How is he doing?”

 

Barely turning his head, Lassiter watched Spencer for a moment. Guster was standing near his friend with his hands shoved hard in his pockets. “He hasn't freaked out, thrown up, or fainted.” Or spoken.

 

O'Hara sighed and moved back towards the kitchen at the back of the home. Lassiter followed; keeping in the narrow hallway so he didn't lose sight of the two men only just breaking out of their four foot bubble and starting to explore. Ahead of him, O'Hara stopped at a small kitchen table cluttered with dirty dishes, plastic flowers in a vase, and several pieces of mail.

 

“All of the envelopes are addressed to an Elizabeth A. Vernon, except for this one.” O'Hara held one white envelope between her gloved fingers.

 

Lassiter took it and cocked his head at the clear window on the front. “Daniel Vernon. Husband maybe?”

 

O'Hara shrugged. “The witness didn't indicate a husband. She said that this neighbor, Elisabeth, pretty much kept to herself. Only time she really saw her was when Elisabeth would leave the house in the morning – presumably to go to work.”

 

“The witness say what kind of car she drove?”

 

O'Hara nodded – her face grim. “Yes. A gray van. The kind without windows.”

 

Of course. Lassiter handed back the envelope and turned to check on Spencer... only to find he was no longer in sight.

 

“Hey! Gruber!” A younger officer, lounging near the front door, straightened and tugged at his sleeves as Lassiter walked back into the living room. “You see where Spencer and Guster wandered off to?”

 

Gruber scanned the officers and CSU moving throughout the room. “Uhhh...”

 

“Never mind.” Growling, Lassiter dismissed the man with a hand wave. “O'Hara, contact McNab and have him look up both Elizabeth and Daniel Vernon. See if he can get a license plate on the van or any other vehicles. Also, have him pull the phone records...”

 

O'Hara shook her head. “Actually we haven't located a phone here and so far there's no sign of a cell phone – or any technology for that matter.”

 

Lassiter looked around himself again – taking in the sparse furniture and general lack of clutter. Other than the dirty dishes in the kitchen, the place looked barely lived in. “This is just a smoke screen. She used this for a cover but didn't actually...” He tapped O'Hara on the shoulder with two knuckles. “I need McNab to research alternative addresses. He may need to dig – go back as far as he has to.” Leaving her there, Lassiter covered ground heading towards the stairwell off the main room.

 

“Wait, where are you going?”

 

Lassiter didn't slow as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “To track down Spencer. No doubt he's already found something by now.” _Or fallen down a hole._ Best not to say that last part out loud, however.

 

 

~-~-~

 

“This place is creepy as hell, Shawn.” Gus poked at a flowered rug with the tip of one shoe. CSU had already been through the upstairs rooms but Shawn had wanted to check them out anyhow. No lie, Gus was thrilled to Shawn acting so... “Shawn”. His friend had called him from the station that afternoon after finishing his statement. Assuming they'd be going to lunch, he'd had a twisted up moment of excitement and terror when Shawn, instead, had insisted on accompanying the officers to the suspect's house. No way of predicting how Shawn would handle something like this – so far he seemed to be okay. Well he wasn't saying much, but...

 

Floorboards squeaked, very creepily, as Shawn wandered across the floor. The bedroom wasn't large or well furnished so there wasn't a whole lot to look at besides the floral rug. Twin bed with a cheap metal headboard. Walmart end table with a single shaded lamp. No art on the faded peach walls, though there were some darker shapes where art must have hung once, long ago. There was a tiny half bathroom just off the bedroom. Gus had poked his head in – taking in the stained yellow linoleum and greenish teal porcelain. Circa 1956, the space had to have been crawling with every communicable disease on the radar. Shawn avoided the bathroom completely.

 

Downstairs, the sounds of over a dozen officers and techs talking, photographing, and digging carried a nice weight of comfort. Knowing that officers had already cleared the room he was standing in was a comfort as well. Too many times, Shawn had dragged him into unsecured homes, warehouses, boats... It was a novelty to explore a place they were 98 percent certain didn't contain an armed psychopath.

 

“Creepy is as creepy does, Gus.” Shawn's voice was muffled where he was kneeling to dig under the bed.

 

“That doesn't even make sense.” Using his pinky to open the side table drawer, Gus noted the absence of everything but dust. Still, he felt around the top of the drawer and even ducked down to look at the underside. Nothing. On the other side of the bed, Shawn was crawling to his feet – sneezing at the dust bunnies that had tried to burrow up his nose.

 

“Sorry, buddy, no leftover Easter chocolate.”

 

Gus snapped his lips. “Do we even know what we're looking for?”

 

“Nope.” Walking around the edge of the room, feet sliding along the floorboards, Shawn cocked his head when he reached the first corner. Bumping his toe against the painted wood, Shawn dragged his teeth across his lower lip, back-stepped two feet, and nudged again.

 

Eyebrows dropping low, Gus approached while Shawn put a hand against the wall and lowered himself back to the floor. He winced as he dropped a little hard on his butt.

 

“You okay?”

 

Shawn waved one hand before leaning in. A second later he snapped his fingers before looking over one shoulder. “You got a... thing?”

 

“Thing?” Gus reached into his back right pocket and tugged out a handkerchief.

 

“Yeah, a thing. Thanks!” Shawn snatched the bit of cloth and twisted back to the wall. Fingers crimping around the top half of the baseboard, he pulled – shoulders hunching as he tugged at the wood.

 

“Uh... Shawn?” Gus took a single step, and stopped at the loud crack as the wood gave – release of force throwing Shawn back against Gus's legs.

 

“Woah!” Gus stumbled – one hand flailing back to brace against the bed's mattress. Shawn resettled himself – setting the bit of wood, about a 6 inch length, alongside himself before easing his hand with the cloth into the opening he'd unearthed.

 

“Better hope there isn't a bear trap in there.” Gus slid back – just in case a squadron of mice decided to escape his buddy pawing around in their nest.

 

“A bear trap? Really? Dude, this space isn't big enough for...” He stopped and Gus tensed – prepared to run. And get help, of course. He felt strongly about following the lifeguard's creed. If you drown trying to save a swimmer, you both die. Better to assure your own survival first, and then save the floundering guy caught in a rip tide.

 

Twisting his wrist a little, Shawn tugged free something hidden by the handkerchief.

 

Gus opened his mouth.

 

“What is it?” Twin screams shattered through the room – cut off quickly as Lassiter swore and stepped into the room. “Shut it!”

 

Moving one trembling hand from the wall, Shawn gushed out a breath and lifted one hand towards Gus, flapping his fingers. Still mumbling, Lassiter crossed the bright rug to join Gus in grabbing an arm and hauling Shawn upright – a grunt and wince following their too helpful aid.

 

“Ow.” Rolling his shoulders and wincing again, Shawn leaned back against the wall and peeled the handkerchief away from the hidden treasure.

 

A child's music box, painted white and pink with a tiny ballerina on the cover. None of them said it but the Silence of the Lambs comparisons rose up thick around them. With previous events also just as fresh, it made for a nausea inducing moment that had Gus reconsidering the small bathroom a few steps away.

 

“Here.” Without moving to peer inside or win further glory, Shawn passed the box to Lassiter.

 

The cover made the smallest creak as it was raised. Slow and tinny – discordant as the worn down mechanism rolled in an ever slowing circuit, the strains of “You Are My Sunshine” tinkled and flickered and died midway through the last three notes. Inside was a handful of glittering plastic jewelry and several tiny Ziploc bags. Lassiter plucked free one bag. Wound in a small curl, a heartbreaking keepsake more often associated with baby books and growth charts, was a lock of honey brown hair tied in a blue ribbon.

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

The report from Buzz came back as Lassiter was returning down the stairs with Shawn and Gus. Juliet walked towards her partner as she answered. “Yeah, McNab, what have you... Really? Wow, that was fast!” She held up an index finger to postpone the questions she knew Lassiter wanted to ask. She also knew that he hated that but it was hard enough hearing Buzz with all the clatter of the investigators without her partner also bellowing in her ear.

 

“Okay... okay, thanks Buzz!” Her hand was still in the air as she ended the call. “McNab has a lead on another location; also under the name, Elizabeth Vernon.”

 

Whatever question Lassiter had been burning to ask vanished with the new information. “Yes! Where?”

 

Juliet pocketed her cell. “Montecito. It's a mansion on Cravens Lane. About ten minutes from Toro Canyon.”

 

Shawn and Gus both stepped the rest of the way down from the stairs. “Where the first body was found.” The two men shared a glance before Shawn dropped his attention to the rust brown carpet.

 

Lassiter's teeth locked together and he looked ready to chew the walls. “Dammit – I knew we should have gone door to door with...”

 

“Lassiter, this isn't your fault!” Juliet breathed and took her voice down a few notches – aware of the flinch from the young man hovering in the background, “And, honestly, we don't have time for anything else.” She nodded towards her partner, who dragged fingers through his hair, before nodding back. Self blame would follow him, regardless, but the job was the priority right now.

 

Lassiter scrubbed his palm across his lips before stiffening his shoulders. “Okay, we need to move on this, now!” He immediately began pointing out officers to assist them – leaving a couple behind to watch over the continuing search at the house. A call to Vick got them a few additional units to join them en route – no such thing as too many in a situation like this. They only thing Juliet hadn't counted on was Shawn, again insisting on going with.

 

“Absolutely not, Spencer!”

 

Juliet placed her hand against Shawn's arm – feeling heat on her cheeks at the intensity of his look back. “I'm sorry, Shawn, this is just too dangerous.”

 

“O'Hara, let's go!”

 

Juliet squeezed the arm in her hand before letting go. “You and Gus head back home. I promise I'll call you with an update as soon as I can.”

 

She didn't look back as she raced from the house.

 

~-~-~

 

“We're gonna follow them, aren't we.”

 

“Gus, you know me so well.”

 

~-~-~

 

“We told you not to follow us.”

 

Shawn and Gus stood with the officers at the bottom of the gated driveway. Large Magnolia trees and decorative cactus, beautiful accents on either side of the drive, had the secondary benefit of covering any approach.

 

Shawn chose to peer through the gate rather than respond to what hadn't been an outright dismissal; confirmed when Juliet sighed.

 

“Just stay here until we let you know it's safe, guys, okay?”

 

The contingent of cops split up – covering the many points of entry into the overgrown home. Lassiter and Juliet were among the group entering at the front. The gates, unlocked and even cracked open just a bit in a rather mouse to cheese kinda fashion, squeaked ringingly loud as the first group of officer slipped past them and into the tree spotted yard on either side of the manor.

 

Back pressed against the stone pillar to the left of the gates, Shawn didn't twitch until Lassie and Jules had been out of sight for a full twenty second count.

 

“Shawn!” Gus snatched his wrist within his single step to the right.

 

“Gus, we need to-”

 

“No! No, we don't need to, Shawn! Juliet told us to stay here and that's what we're going to do!”

 

“So, what, back at the house we do our own thing, our way, but when we're here we do what Juliet says?”

 

“Right now? Yes – we do what Juliet says! You don't know what's in there, Shawn, and I'm not...” Eyes blinking up at the sky, Gus held him until Shawn breathed out and grabbed the bars of the gate – squeezing his fingers around the slender posts.

 

Thirty yards away and almost obscured by an overgrown flowering shrub, he could see peeks of blue through the branches as the officers advanced on the building. His heels crunched dried leaves – the gate making the smallest rattle as his grip tightened.

 

He got it. Even if Gus thought he didn't. He didn't want to face down another killer – he really, really didn't. Even thinking about a face to face with another monster made his joints flare with old pain and his knees try to buckle beneath him. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to face a true threat again.

 

But, then, maybe that was the real point.

 

“Gus...” He breathed out again and let his head drop against the metal bars. “I'm sorry.” Diving through the narrow opening, he slipped away from the snatching fingers.

 

“Shawn!”


	31. Reaching a Boiling Point

Dried dead grass was all that remained of what once had likely been a stunning garden. A vast stone fountain stood in the center of the back yard. Two marble statues of children, a boy and girl at play, ran through what used to be a wide pool. But the spouts that had fed that fountain were long ago rusted and caked with lime. Where water used to sparkle, now there was only a muddied pit filled with decayed leaves and refuse.  
  
Shawn kept close to the building as edged towards the small door he could see through the thick covering of ivy. Probably a servant's entrance at one point. He could still reach the handle through the vegetation, but a single tug showed it either to be locked or-  
  
“Probably rusted shut.”   
  
Shawn jumped – a half turn finding Gus near his right side. Gus tipped back his head – eyes traveling up and up the massive stone and brick mansion.  
  
“Just for the record, I was more than willing to let the cops handle this.”  
  
Shawn nodded; both of them turning back towards the small door. “For the record? So was I.” And then he slammed his shoulder into the door.  
  
  


~-~-~

  
  
Lassiter had taken point – Juliet several steps back while the remaining four officers covered their rear. His vest made movements a little stiff but he was used to the weight. Room by room, they cleared the first floor. Unlike the previous house, this place was packed with furniture, knickknacks, and just general crap. Dobson nearly took a bad fall trying to step over a tippy pile of boxes. Only a quick lunge by O'Hara and Officer Patrick saved the man from face planting on the mouldering rug. Well, what could be seen of the mouldering rug, anyhow. Lassiter nudged aside a ceramic pig with his toe before moving on towards the dark hall.  
  
Somewhere distant, at the back of the mansion, he could hear the other group of officers making their way towards them. Giving their position on the radio clipped to his shoulder, Lassiter pushed on towards the huge stairway at the mid-point of the building. His left shoulder brushed against peeling blue paint – flecks of it peppering his hair. Not exactly stealthy as every step squeaked and creaked on the faded wood. A pause every handful of seconds, listening, and then advancing on again. Nothing but their breathing.   
  
The second group gave an update on their location as they moved through the kitchen and on towards a thick door they believed led to the basement or cellar.   
  
“Copy that; watch it down there.” Voice just loud enough to carry over the radio and forcing his mind on the present and not memories of blood and rot and closed in spaces, Lassiter waved them up the last four steps and stopped – weapon covering one side of the landing while O'Hara covered the other end. Still clear.  
  
Three fingers pointing left, he sent half their group towards the cluster of doors taking up that wing. O'Hara nodded and took point – only taking a moment to look her partner in the eyes before moving on down the faded runner. With two officers at his back, Lassiter left the remaining contingent towards the two doors to his right.   
  
The first room was small bathroom – tiny hexagonal tiles covered the floor and a worn green rug sat in front of the toilet. The curtain was missing from the claw foot tub – the metal rings on the curtain rod old and rusty. Nothing to see and no other rooms leading off from the bathroom so Lassiter backed them out and moved to the final room.  
  
  


~-~-~

  
  
  
Juliet was in the childhood room of her dreams.  
  
Pink checkered curtains edged with white ruffles covered a large window overlooking the back yard. From that vantage, she could see the huge shade trees, the fountain, and what looked like an overgrown well.   
  
All of the furniture was part of the same set – white with gold trim and elaborate scrollwork. The walls were decorated with what looked like original paintings of flowers and birds. The wooden toy chest next to the dresser was also painted with delicate butterflies and hummingbirds. And the bed...  
  
Thick quilts and pillows were piled up on the double mattress. But even these were partially hidden by the mound of stuffed toys. Unicorns and kitties – fluffy plush puppies and bunnies.   
  
“Detective?”  
  
Juliet headed towards one of the other officers. She'd begun going through the walk in closet while Juliet had been lost in her own head – staring at the child sized four poster.  
  
“What have you got?”  
  
Officer Braydon had pushed aside several of the frilly dresses to reveal a number of large boxes. Several of them were stained around the base.   
  
“Okay, thank you, officer. I've got this.”  
  
Kneeling in the closet, Juliet pulled a striped hat box towards her – her heart thudding. Licking her lips and breathing through her mouth, she pushed off the lid with one gloved finger.  
  
“Oh my G...” Her wrist muffled the rest of her horror.  
  
She wobbled as she got her feet beneath her again – heels catching a little on the thick rug. Moving towards the doorway, she pulled her radio from her belt. “O'Hara to Lassiter, you copy?”  
  
Always too long of a wait. Seconds became a thousand years of impending panic before static hissed through the speakers.  
  
“Lassiter here. The last room is clear and we're heading back towards your position. What do you have, copy?”  
  
Brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead Juliet grabbed another deep breath. “Lassiter, you need to see this.”   
  


~-~-~

  
  
  
  
His left side a solid wall of ache, too late pondering that this was how he'd broken that shoulder a few months ago, Shawn pushed and kicked at the rotted fragments of the door until he could wiggle through the sliver of a hole he'd created. Afternoon light filtered in with him – dust and a greenish haze a challenge to eyesight as he blinked and squinted at the dark ahead.   
  
“See anything?” Gus pushed close at his back – though not enough to actually enter the space.  
  
“I dunno; it's... it's kinda dark...” Shawn's hand shaded his eyes. His other hand crammed into his jeans pocket – fighting against the tremble running through his limbs. He knew that smell.  
  
Behind him, he felt the puff of breath as Gus coughed. “Oh my... is that...?”  
  
Shawn slid one more step inside. Then another. Mold and rot battled it out against his sinuses. Further inside the excavated space, the outside light no longer created such a sharp divide between bright and black. He could make out the shapes of furniture. A long table stood in the center of the room. Surrounding it, perfectly spaced and aligned, were twelve wooden chairs. Twelve small forms sat in the chairs. A squeak and flurry of waving arms as Gus stumbled away - Shawn feeling his own heart pound with sudden panic followed immediately by a sick rush as he identified the forms. A gulp and chuckle as he reached back to catch the sleeve of Gus's shirt.  
  
“S'okay. Just dolls.”  
  
Letting himself be stopped from flight, Gus pulled free his arm to tug at his collar. “Just dolls my ass, Shawn. Chucky ring any bells?”   
  
“What about Toy Story? Those dolls were nice.” Shawn nudged one of the doll bodies, only to find it tied to the chair through the thin wooden slats at the back.  
  
“You really wanna go there? Toy Story; mutant dolls traumatize the neighbor kid and creep out a generation of kids-”   
  
“-And adult pharmaceutical salesmen...”   
  
Gus snuffed – perturbed. “I had chronic nightmares about that cyclops spider baby for the next six years, Shawn. I still can't dangle my limbs off the edge of the bed.”  
  
“Maaaan, you've never let your limbs dangle off the bed.” Shawn moved around the disturbing table – grabbing the back of a chair and lowering himself to peer across the dust cocooned place settings.   
  
No closer to the table, Gus resumed his long-winded point. “Toy Story 2; Stinky Pete-”  
  
“You really sure it isn't Stinky Feet?”  
  
Distracted commentary ignored, Gus managed a single step closer to press his point. “Toy Story 3. Dude, do I really need to elaborate?”  
  
Staring up from his study of the table, Shawn considered for a second before tipping his head. “Fair enough. Still, it did have a happy ending, yeah?”  
  
“Be that as it may.” Gus offered back in stilted enunciation.  
  
Fingers tightened around the table edge and Shawn fought off another sneeze burning in his chest. Empty dishes were at each place setting; gold afternoon sun making it all seem even more desolate. It was the wilted centerpiece, though, that grabbed attention. Poor things could use some water, but the cut flowers couldn't have been there longer than a week. The place was anything but abandoned.  
  
Shawn flattened his hands on the dusty table – fingers brushing against a plate as he pushed upward. He stopped, with his knees still bent, squinting at the soft gleam on a doll's face directly across from him. No, not on the doll's face... in the doll's face. Specifically, its mouth.  
  
“Eugh...” Wheezed out disgust, he leaned in, tilting his head, to get an eyeful of gross. Inside the cut open mouth of every doll were teeth. Human teeth with rotting bits of gum still clinging to their roots.  
  
Both parts terrified by this new discovery and wanting no part of this new discovery, Gus shifted one foot backwards – dragging a clearing scrape through the dust. “Uh, whatever just made you say “ugh”; I want no part of it.”   
  
No argument, there. Shawn had had quite enough of teeth in recent months, himself. Lips scrunched up around his own pearly whites, Shawn moved his stiff legs backwards a few steps – not totally sure the dolls weren't watching him. Every movie Gus had been so kind to bring up now rolled in a loop through his head. As if standing in this rotting basement wasn't already pinging some hardcore PTSD. Shaky hands wiped down his face and smeared dirt through the collected sweat.  
  
The next move was towards the locked door at the far end of the room. Shawn was fiddling with the latch when the snap of old wood beyond ripped a scream from his chest.  
  
“This is the police! Don't move! Come out with your hands up!”  
  
Holy crap! Shawn rubbed at his forehead and thanked the patron saint of bladders that he hadn't pissed himself. “It's cool, guys! Just me and Gus!”  
  
“Spencer?” More creaks as several officers started down. “Detective Lassiter told you to stay with the car.”  
  
Shawn coughed around another hit of dust floating through his lungs. “Dude, you guys find anything yet?” He turned.  
  
Gus was still standing near the caved in opening they'd created.   
  
“Gus?”  
  
Knuckles rapped on the other side of the door. “Hey, Spencer, the door is locked on this side. Open it up, will ya?”  
  
“Oh, I don't want you to do that,” a voice that wasn't Gus spoke over his friend's shoulder. And then a hand, clutching a ragged wedge of sharp metal, came to rest against Gus's throat.  
  
“Now, you two, are going to do exactly what I say.” The metal scraped against skin and Gus flinched – whimpering as blood welled up above his collar, “or I kill the black one and eat his fingers while you watch.”


	32. Spilling Out from Beneath the Lid

The officer, Chey, Shawn remembered, was still knocking at the door. But in a few seconds he would figure out there was something wrong. And then they would bust through and Gus would die.

 

“Okay... Look, whatever you need me to do, I'll do it. Just... just don't do anything...”

 

Blonde hair brushed against Gus's ear. Shawn could see it was tickling him by the way he flinched and squinted one eye.

 

His first, real look at the twisted sicko who had helped to destroy his soul. No way to ignore the throat tightening similarity to Yin and Yang – one brash, one calculating. One bulky, the muscle; one small and analytical. One male and one fem...

 

Shawn gulped as he took in- _blue eyes, offset by smudged mascara. Makeup, perfect this morning, now flaking after so much running around and no chance to touch up. Eyelid twitching – eyes watering – too much dust and possible allergy to pollen. Smudges where tear tracks had been rubbed away – another smudge on the sleeve held close to Gus's shoulder – a pale shade of foundation – referred to as “pancake”; remembering the thick feel of it during his “Chad” days. Only a remnant of red lipstick on the edges of thin lips – the rest licked or rubbed away. And on the chin – just starting to come back in. Shawn had the same daily issue – drove his dad crazy when Shawn was 17 and couldn't seem to pull off “clean cut” for picture day – not that he'd tried. A name, drifting up from a case that seemed a hundred years ago. Regina..._

 

“You know, you should keep a pocket razor if you really want to sell those feminine wiles. Right... Daniel?”

 

Eyes glared wild as the sharp edge dug into Gus's throat.

 

“Shut up! You shut up! Don't call me that!”

 

Shawn froze – the moment of control bleeding out as red soaked his friend's collar. Gus was gasping hard – fingers flexing – need to clutch at his injury but terrified to move.

 

Low pumps – where he'd wrangled a pair that size, Shawn couldn't guess – slid heel first through leaves, broken wood, and tumbled clutter. Gus moved with his captor – legs stiff and movements jerky. His eyes stayed on his friend.

 

“You can't take him!” The snarled words could barely push from between his locked teeth. Something gave somewhere in Shawn's chest and his hands trembled. Rage.

 

Daniel grinned.

 

“Oh, I'm not just taking him. I'm taking you both.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Juliet had pushed aside several rows of tiny ruffled dresses, at the back of the closet, within the time it took for Lassiter to make his way down the hall. The little frocks were arranged by color – unmarred by dirt or dust. This was a space that was visited frequently. But the neatness... the care placed on these dresses. They must have hung for years – yet the hangers hadn't deformed the shoulders in all that time. Lifting the edge of a lacy collar found a roll of soft cotton around the end of the hanger. Easy guess that all of the garments in the closet had been treated with equal concern. This wasn't just a closet. Given the... _other_... contents... it was more like a shrine.

 

The hat box was still on the floor, near her feet; the only part of it disturbed being the lid.

 

Kneeling beside it, Lassiter leaned over to peek inside without touching the container. “Damn. Hard to tell age but I'm guessing this isn't one of our recent victims.”

 

Juliet made a sharp sound and covered her nose with her sleeve. Her digging had located a small cupboard – the door hanging open and a strand of dark hair spilling out over the lip. “No, but it looks like these are.” Her voice was a muffle behind the thick cotton blend.

 

It didn't matter how much horror they'd dealt with in the last half of a year; each fresh deluge was just as sickening. Iron clad promise that he would not be vomiting at a crime scene, ever, Lassiter rolled his neck and grabbed the wall to pull himself up. O'Hara stepped back from the cupboard – the space too small for both of them.

 

The contents, for whatever it was worth, were exactly what he'd imagined he'd see. They were all there – along with a face he'd truly hoped to never see again. Bright red lips were sewn shut – lipstick smeared with blood. The hands and feet were bundled alongside like macabre accessories. The hair, though, looked like it had been washed and brushed... Weird...

 

“ _...ctive Lassiter, do you copy?”_ Backing out of the closet again, Lassiter tilted his head towards his radio.

 

“Lassiter. What's the problem, over?”

 

“Lassiter!”

 

Voice shouting from the radio as well as the room, Lassiter pulled back his lips and waved a hand at the shouter – until his partner joined in – her face tight.

 

“Carlton!”

 

“What in the name of Bill Paxton...” the radio voice was blathering something about Spencer and Lassiter growled through his teeth. Apparently extreme trauma wasn't even enough to break bad habits! Several cops had crowded by the window and Lassiter pushed two aside. “Okay, what in the hell are you looki loos... Goddammit!” Fingers flipped the switch on his radio once more.

 

“Chey! The suspect has Spencer and Guster! All three have exited the building and are heading East through the back garden. I need you to circle around back and close off their escape through the South fence!”

 

Leaving an officer to monitor the situation through the upstairs window, Lassiter and O'Hara changed back through the house – Lassiter updating the remaining officers as they ran.

 

Officers Shannon and Beck met them on the main floor along with several other members of their team. The group was hampered by more trash – Lassiter nearly twisting an ankle when a random paper plate skidded beneath one loafer.

 

The back door was through the kitchen. Apparently the root cellar, where Spencer and Guster had connected with the current week's brand of trouble, was below them down a short flight of steps.

 

“Chey, what's your twenty, over?” Head tipped towards his radio speaker, Lassiter spotted the back of Spencer's head just beyond the tall brambles that had overtaken the lawn near the dead fountain.

 

The moment he was through the door, the perp spotted him – knife in his hand pulling up under Guster's chin. “Back off! All of you back off! Except for you!” Her voice, of notable bass levels, halted the cops while giving Spencer his marching orders. Ticking her... his... head left, the perp kept Spencer's body as an extra shield against the armed officers as the hostages were forced further away from any chance of rescue.

 

There was nowhere to escape to – but there were plenty of obstacles in the way of a clean shot – not the least of which were the two consultants. High, sun-crisped, grass provided spotty shelter and impossible targeting – while affording their perp a line of sight on the officers surrounding the trio.

 

Their options were narrowing to just a few, really ugly, choices. And the longer this dragged out, the greater the chance of a fatality. But the thing that tore through Lassiter's gut was realizing that the outcome of the standoff rested on the damaged shoulders of Shawn Spencer.

 

On a good day, Spencer could talk himself out of being killed no matter how motivated his attacker. The fact that Lassiter, himself, hadn't put a bullet through him was proof of that. But Spencer wasn't the Chatty Cathy of days gone by. Yeah, he'd graduated from one word replies to a stuttering of full sentences, but, even on a good day, Spencer was prone to irrationality when Guster was in danger. Dammit, this was not going to end well.

 

“Shannon.” Lassiter glanced towards the heavy officer, who moved up next to him. Both of them turned back to keep eyes on the distant hostage situation.

 

“Yes, Detective?”

 

Twenty yards away, Lassiter could make out Spencer's dark gray hoodie – something that would likely have been shed in the building warmth. Kid had to be sweltering by now.

 

“I need you in that upper bedroom window with a rifle. The second you have a clear shot, you take it. You copy?”

 

Shannon wiped sweat from his neck with his sleeve and nodded. “Copy that.”

 

As the large cop pushed past the group gathered behind them, Lassiter could feel the creepy hum of a gaze pointed his way. He didn't turn his head. The sole of his shoes squeaked over the grit coated concrete pathway.

 

“We don't have a choice.” He finally allowed.

 

His partner breathed next to him – walking into the edge of his sight. “I know.”

 

 

~-~-~

 

 

Shawn moved a few steps closer until ordered to stop.

 

“Look, man, they aren't gonna let you out of here with him. But it doesn't have to end bad, okay? Just – just let Gus go and I promise you'll get a fair shake, alright?”

 

Daniel squeezed the metal in his hand. Little drops of blood pooled up between his fingers where he'd sliced his own palm. A dribble of red welled across the iridescent bracelet sparkling on his wrist.

 

Not quite enough moisture in his mouth to wet his lips, Shawn bit them instead. His arms ached from holding them up – joints knifing with pain. Foreign familiar words tried to whisper under the shivers in his mind. He shoved them back with his own.

 

“The girls, Daniel. You gave them some of your jewelry?”

 

“Sissy! Not Daniel! Daniel is a coward!”

 

“You're right, you're right. I'm sorry, Sissy. That's a pretty name. Is it short for Elizabeth?” Shawn's heels crunched in the grass as he shifted balance to the other hip – muscles starting to tremble from holding himself so still.

 

Daniel nodded. “Momma always called me Sissy.”

 

“Your momma loved you, didn't she?” But Daniel's eyes glared and he squeezed the blade again – blood swelling over his knuckles. Lips pulled up past his gums.

 

“Momma... No! Nononono! You killed him! He was the only one that loved me and you killed him!”

 

Still dragging Gus backwards, Daniel kept his eyes locked on Shawn.

 

Killed...?

 

“ _Dobre...”_

 

A shudder rattled through his ribs. Pieces were starting to stitch into their final shape. No neatly crafted quilt but more Frankenstein's monster all blue and purple flesh swollen with grotesque dead skin and bulging veins pushing thickened blood. He could just see it. Like all of the times the puzzle suddenly made sense. There was no flood of happy endorphins, this time. No thrill of mystery solved. No joy in the conclusion.

 

“Kulish. He was the one that raised you... wasn't he.”

 

Tears were swelling in red-rimmed eyes. Mascara began to run in smooth lines down Daniel's powdered cheeks.

 

“You took him from me.”

 

Shawn shook his head while locking eyes with his best friend. “Dan- Sissy, Kulish was very... very sick. Okay? He was very sick and when he...”

 

“No!” The jagged metal strip dug in again and Gus swallowed – eyes pinching shut. “No, he died because of you! You killed him!”

 

“Shawn...” Gus hitched against the tight hold – voice a whisper.

 

Arms aching from holding out his hands, Shawn licked his lips and shifted his heels again in the heavy grass. “It's okay, buddy. It's gonna be okay.” He coughed as his voice pitched high. Lips mashed and he sniffed – making a quick scan of the visible players. Cops made a rough semi-circle – the closest being Lassiter and Juliet at around twenty yards away. Too far to reach them even at a run. Too far for even a decent shot with Gus pulled tight and Shawn himself in the line of fire. Nutcase or not, Danny-boy had placed himself well. There was a small opening at his back, but tall grass and a disintegrating stone well made taking a shot risky. The only other option would be a sniper shot from a high angle. The upper window overlooking the back garden. But Shawn was in the way. He needed to move three feet to the left.

 

Shawn took a single step sideways... and metal moved up and down dark skin; opening another rough line – pink rimmed and trickling red. Gus had gone past nervousness and into a steady cry; breathy and with a note of a kettle reaching its boiling point.

 

Shawn felt his teeth chatter together – adrenaline flushing through his limbs – stunted back at the threat but burning to lunge him forward – in between that sharpness and the soft flesh of his best friend's throat. He'd take a homemade blade to the face if it stopped the horror show. He'd been cut worse.

 

So maybe not all of the shaking was from adrenaline. Cave-like structure somewhere at his back pushing its ghosts over his shoulders. He felt the chill of breath behind his ears. The whisper thrilling up his vertebrae.

 

“ _Yzha...”_

 

His throat hitched in a hard throb. The stalemate hadn't moved, but he could feel the thrum of energy – like holding an angry cat as its tail starts to lash. Everyone was too still. Wet slid down the back of his neck in a small bead. He shivered when it snaked down the middle of his back.

 

“Will you miss him when he dies?”

 

Shawn blinked – breath hissing across his lower lip. He could feel the ice building around his throat – like it had been not long before. Words stacking together in his belly with no way out. He was freezing to death under the pounding sun. There was so much tension in his lower back that his legs shook. Between his teeth, the tip of his tongue was held tight. He could taste red when it started to bleed.

 

Gus opened his eyes.

 

The light crunch of dried grass stalks breaking was the only sound.

 

Shawn's body slammed into Gus hard enough to jar captor and captive off their feet. The shriek that tore up from the tangle came as metal clutching fingers were snapped between grinding teeth. Shawn could feel Gus squirming between them as Daniel's other grip loosened – lost completely as he switched from holding a hostage to clawing three searing lines down the side of Shawn's face. Blood welled up next to his eye and pooled in the corner – a lens of bright red that barely saw Gus rolling from danger.

 

“Kill you I'll kill you I'll KILL YOU!” Words raged out with hot breath – his teeth ripping away as he was rolled on his back – a blunt knee ramming into the once open wound of his belly and bringing to technicolor life the feel of warm intestines rolling out of the cavity of his gut.

 

Cops were no doubt charging – no doubt drawing down on the battling pair. Shawn wanted to shout 'Just shoot the son of a bitch!' but nothing formed in his gasp but a gasp as a thumbnail, decked out with a shining black extension of an acrylic tip, rammed beneath his lowest rib and dug in.

 

“Killyoukillyoukillyou...” Chanting melted into non-words – or one long word. Not enough time to finesse that thought with Vida Boheme trying to gouge a hole in his side.

 

Blood slicked around his throat where Daniel had clamped his other hand. Four sharp nails, and one blunted pinkie where a tip had ripped free, sank into the cords of his neck. Cold mist dragged into the sides of his eyes – ears rumbled with something like thunder. It wasn't supposed to rain...

 

The black sky cleared from his sight as claws yanked from his throat. Shawn's one free hand crushed down on delicate anatomy. The howl that followed nearly drowned out the shouting cops as they closed in.

 

Shawn felt relief.

 

It was a mistake.

 

Grip loosened just enough and Daniel lunged across his body – hand dragging through heavy grass. Shawn rolled and yanked at his legs – still trapped beneath Daniel's frame. His arms wrapped around the narrow body – pulling it away from the deadly metal length he knew Daniel was struggling to reach. Once more he was pressed under the man's weight – legs the only thing in his grip and kicking hard. He just had to hold on for a few seconds; long enough for taser prongs to dig home...

 

Shawn felt movement under his right shoulder. The ground seemed to pucker – grass tearing and the sudden snap of dry wood.

 

And then the world dropped out beneath them.


	33. Let it Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the apologies that it took so long to update - though still better than my track record for this story!! Woot!! All the thanks to my various helpers to get this one posted!! I wanted to be certain I got this chapter up before I head out of town. I'll be back in a week but, meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this update!!

Breath slammed from his chest – no thought to wonder if he was dead – Gus was somehow face down in prickly blades of hay textured stuff that tickled up his nose and no ability to even sneeze it away. He felt something kick against his shoulder but movement was a far off fantasy.

 

The struggle beside him continued while he worked on his diaphragm. Choir rehearsals had taught him the importance of breathing from deep within the lungs; from the diaphragm. Nobody wanted to be like poor Aaron Erickson – forced to lie on the floor, on his back, until he learned the proper methods for filling his lungs. Maybe that was the trouble. Lying on his stomach wasn't doing him any favors.

 

Another hard kick to his legs burst free the lock around his chest and Gus sucked in several tablespoons of dusty earth and dried grass – immediately belching out a roar of coughs that ripped most of his intestines free.

 

His wrists buckled at the first attempt to push his face away from the tufts of turf poking at his cheeks and lips. Hunching himself up on his elbows, instead, he heaved another wracking cough past his teeth and took stock of the damage.

 

“Sh-cuhh-awn?”

 

He was alone.

 

~-~-~

  
  


A tickle of wet slid across his eyelid.

 

It was all numb.  Numb, muffled, couldn’t even hear his breathing.  He could feel his chest, though, as air started to pump, fast, through his lungs.

 

Circling, circling brain bubbles bubbling drifting back into the dark.  He’d never left it.  Never left…

 

Razor inhale of choking blades and dirt crusting his teeth - head rush filling his brain with blood - staring up at his toes in the black - knowing they were above but too dark to see - too dark… oh God he was… he was...  

 

Shawn blinked, then squinted at a hazy yellow circle floating far out of reach.

 

Breath hitched up his chest and he pulled in a musty gulp. It took a few moments of additional blinking, his tongue rubbing back and forth across his teeth.  He was upside down – legs braced up a stone wall. His chest pumped harder for breath before the thick air turned it to rough coughs.

 

His knuckles bumped across damp grit but a burn through his shoulder stopped the motion.  Fingers flexed - then seared.  Burn traveled up through his wrists and woke up other aches as it passed through his limbs.  His hands felt like fire.

 

It was taking longer to track back over the last... day? Maybe it helped, the blood rushing to his head, because pieces of recent events were dripping back into place.

 

Basement, dolls, Daniel, Gus, blood, fight, falling, ouch.

 

The final bit of memory, hands dragging against rough walls to slow his plummet, answered the question of how he’d survived as well as why his hands felt like they’d gone through a wood chipper.

 

Relief felt like cold water when he wiggled the toes somewhere overhead. Bits of stone and dirt crumbled under his heel as he slid one leg left – testing the waters. It ached all through his hips and back but he didn't thiiink anything was broken. Every grunt and whine sounded dull – as though his head were inside a barrel.  And he had some experience with that.  Basically, wherever he was, it was small.   

 

His left leg had made about four inches of progress before he attempted to move the right one.  Most of his weight, now, resting on that heel, he felt his shoulders pushing into the squishy dirt as he dragged that limb towards his other leg - whole body shifting in a tilt.

 

“Gnuugh!”  Gravity snatched at him and his body flopped in a sideways sorta fold - one leg still half climbing the wall but, hey, at least his arm was finally free.  Face turned against the softness beneath, he bit down on cloth as the old break in his collar bone throbbed.  As the pain began to fade, he breathed out through his nose.  He tasted blood.  Did he bite his tongue?

 

Still dark when he opened his eyes.  But not too dark to see that the cloth he’d been chewing on didn’t belong to him.

 

Not enough room to create space between himself and the other figure sharing his tiny dungeon, Shawn still pressed himself against crumbly stone walls.  Daniel took up most of the floor.  His wig was half peeled from his scalp - blood smeared through the ratty blonde.  a spill of rocks bounced and cracked against the side walls from somewhere above.  Shawn ducked - throwing one arm over his head until the small rain of stones ebbed.  Twisting to peer up, eyes watering through the glare narrowing on his face, he saw a smudge move near the edge of the bright circle.

 

“Shawn!”  The echo bounced back and forth in its long way down.

 

First attempt to stand dropped him right back on his butt hard enough to snap his teeth together.  Sitting was fine.  Sitting was good.  

 

“Gus!?”  Wheezy but it still carried enough to earn a few more pelting stones.

 

“Shawn, you okay!?”

 

No chance to answer before another face shoved into frame.

 

“Spencer, is the perp secure!?”

 

Shawn hacked against his arm.  “No, seriously, I’m fine, dude!”

 

“Shawn!  Try not to move!  We’re going to get you out!”  A third, far prettier, head joined the cluster.  Juliet, at least, had her priorities prioritized.  He wiped his eye, again, as more blood sludged down his temple.  The far wall did a neat little trick as it seemed to wooze left before shifting back into place.  Hooray for concussions.

 

Groaning ripped his attention back to the sprawled figure grabbing all the good floor space.  

 

Daniel was alive.  

  
  


~-~-~

  
  


“How’s Spencer doing?”  

 

Three times, Gus had been pulled away from the crumbly lip of the well.  Several officers had cleared away the rotted boards that had covered the round opening.  Gus had been the first one to reach the edge and look down - shading his eyes to try to pick out the forms far below.  At least thirty feet deep with an opening about six feet wide.  And Shawn had gone in head first.

 

His first view of his friend had been the bottoms of his sneakers.  Shawn hadn’t moved even while Gus had yelled at him.  Henry Spencer’s red face had crawled up behind his forehead - demanding to know, what the hell, Gus had allowed to happen to his son.  Sick sweat had brushed along his temples.  

 

And then Shawn had moved.  

 

Juliet had been trying to get Gus to leave the rim of the well.  No chance.  He was staying till Shawn was back above ground.  His friend wasn’t going to be left alone in the dark.  Never again.

 

Lassiter had been, surprisingly, less pushy about that issue.  Between coordinating the rescue, he’d checked in, now and then, on Shawn’s condition.

 

He was back again, now, crouched down on the opposite side of the opening.

 

“Spencer say anything helpful yet?”    

 

Hot words pushed behind his lips, but Gus held them back when Lassiter bent closer to the hole - teeth chipping at his bottom lip.  His flashlight was out a moment later - brightening the dank pit.  Shawn didn’t look up as the light brushed the crown of his head.  

 

Daniel was still on the floor, but he’d begun to move more; clenching his hands and turning his head back and forth.  

 

Gus rubbed grit from his chin.  Juliet joined them; carting a small first aid kit she’d gotten from somewhere.

 

“Here, sit back a minute.  I want a look at that cut.”

 

Cut?  Juliet was pulling at his collar before he remembered the sharp metal that had been digging into his throat.  Wobbily weakness flushed through his spine when Gus spotted the blood on Juliet’s fingertips as she fished an antiseptic wipe from the kit.  The hot/cold sting of it on his throat pulled him out of his impending swan dive.  

 

“It’s not bad.  Not sure if you’ll even need stitches, but we’ll see what the paramedics say when they get here.”

 

Juliet was distracted, though, so Gus wasn’t certain how much faith he had in her medical evaluation.  He could have a nicked jugular for all she knew!  As it was, active bad guy threat surpassed unknown medical emergency.  Not that Gus held it against her.  He was finding it hard to focus on his injury with that deep. black hole in the ground only a few feet away.  Knowing that, somewhere at the bottom, Shawn was trapped.  Along with a killer.

 

His throat could wait.  Right now, his best friend needed him!                

  
  


~-~-~

  
  


Nothing like a lack of weapons to feel completely vulnerable.  Plenty of huge stones.  Of course, they were also embedded in the wall of the… where the hell were they?

 

“Shawn!  Is there water at the bottom!?”

 

Daniel hadn’t moved after that last groan.  Shawn licked his lips - then twisted his face back up towards his looming friend.

 

“What!?  Why!?”  He spit specks of dirt from his lips - tasting blood.  He could feel more grit between his teeth but, after a squinted look at his ragged fingers, decided against trying to pry the bits free with his torn nails.

 

Daniel turned his head in the dirt and Shawn bashed his heel against the wall trying to back further.  One set of fake lashes had been lost on their way down.  The other set was clinging to his lid with just an edge - the lashes fluttering as the man started to blink.

 

Shawn pressed tighter to the wall.  

 

“You’re in a well!”  The shouted non sequitur was enough to pull Shawn’s attention away from the waking killer.

 

“What!?”

 

“Shawn, the rescue crew is fifteen minutes out!  Are you okay?  Are you injured?”  Juliet again - leaning a little too far over the rim for Shawn’s comfort.     

 

Attention slipped back to Daniel, again, as the man shifted his head against the ground.  His eyes opened, then squinted at the light streaming to the bottom of their pit.

 

“I’m fine - just some scrapes!  Can’t really speak for Danny Boy!  Dude, tell me you have a rope or a tree branch!”  Shawn flinched when Daniel’s fist thudded on the dirt - face turning to the right - to stare at Shawn.

 

Small rocks and dirt pattered down as Gus returned to the lip of the well.  “We’re trying to find something; just hang on!”

 

Nose scrunched, Shawn squinted up towards the hovering face above.  “Are you kidding me!?  You’re actually telling me to just ‘hang on’!?  How about ‘sit tight’ or ‘hang loose’ or maybe ‘stay chill, bro’!?”

 

Too late, his focus slammed back into the pit; Daniel’s full length crushed him against the wall - odd shaped stones wedged into his hips and back.  

 

“It’s your fault!”  Stench like decayed cheese seeped from a mouth that was inches from Shawn’s cheek.  Head turned away from that maw, he coughed through the stirred dirt cloud and the stink of his pit companion.

 

Another hail of stones peppered down with Gus’s shout.  “Woah!  Hey, get off of him!”

 

Shawn twisted but the grip on his body was tight.  “What’s my fault?  Falling?  Dude, you attacked us, first!”

 

Hook fingers of one hand pressed into the skin of his upper arm - the other hand became a clamp on Shawn’s right collarbone - thumb sinking into the lumpy scar tissue that had just enough life left to flare like a brand at the pressure.

 

“Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”  The voice wobble and snuff of a trembling breath was startling.  Daniel scuffed his face across his shoulder - losing his tattered wig and that last eyelash in the process.  Mascara made a thin streak all the way to the hairline.  

 

The fingers wrapping his collarbone began to dig in further and Shawn grasped at the hand - a bolt of hot pain shooting all the way to his elbow.  

 

“Why you?  Why!?  Why was it you?”  

 

Trying to breathe through his teeth,  Shawn shook his head.  “Why - ungh… why me, what?”  His thighs shook as Daniel pushed hard against him - one industrious stone felt like it was plowing through his kidney.  The hand in his bicep released him and Shawn used the little freedom to push at Daniel’s chest.  His eyebrows jumped at the amount of muscle he felt beneath the thin blouse and padded bra.  His own muscles, weakened from the long recovery, may as well have been shoving at his dad’s truck.

 

Fingers that had been latched on his arm dropped from sight - the next contact when they grasped the hem of his shirt and yanked the cotton all they way up to his sternum.

 

“Dude, hey!”  Breath screeched as the fingers buried in his shoulder seemed to punch right through the skin in a roar of hurt.

 

The hand spread across his lower belly and Shawn flinched from the touch.  Two fingers traced back and forth over the grooves where his flesh had been sliced away - just above the larger gouge of rough scar tissue where he’d been…

 

Daniel sniffed again and finally pulled his hand back.  His other hand dropped from Shawn’s shoulder as he stepped away - letting Shawn slide to the ground - arms wrapping around himself.

 

Both arms throbbed and his body ached worse than a full day of physical therapy.  The joints in his knees and hips ground together in this position, but with Daniel pacing in front of him, Shawn wasn’t willing to stretch out and provide another limb to grab.    

 

“Shawn!  Are you okay!?”  Gus again - still hanging over the lip of the well.  

 

Shawn waved one hand before returning it to cup around his tender shoulder.  

 

“Spencer, we’re going to send down some water.  The rescue team will be here in about ten minutes, so you two just need to stay calm until they get here!”  Shawn did look up, then, if just to glare at the detective.

 

“Tell that to Buffalo Bill!”  Granted, it wasn’t as though Lassie could just draw down on Dan the man - not with their proximity and the darkness and all the other little hindrances.  Still, Shawn would be willing to risk a bullet, given the circumstances.

 

The glare he got back was encouraging.  A mad Lassiter was better than a worried one.  On the other side of the opening, Juliet held two water bottles taped together.  A thin rope was tied around them and she began to lower the little care package.

 

Still pacing, Daniel hadn’t responded to the shouted conversation.  Rather, he’d fisted his hands in his blouse - twisting the fabric nearly to the point of tearing it.  

 

When the water bottles were close enough, Shawn snagged the swinging bundle and freed the loop binding them.  Tugging the strip of tape loose, he tossed one of the bottles towards Daniel.  The other man didn’t react and the bottle thumped into the dirt at his feet.

 

Not a fan of warm water, Shawn had to admit that the tepid liquid gushing down his throat was one of the best things he’d tasted in a while.  He closed his eyes as he tipped his head back, chugging the last few drops and already wishing he’d kept the other bottle too.  It wasn’t as though Daniel…

 

Explosion slammed into the side of his head and Shawn’s skull cracked into the wall behind him.  There was shouting above but no time to focus on words as hands grabbed his shirt and dragged him upright.

 

“It was a mistake!  It was just a mistake!  You weren’t supposed to live - you weren’t!  It was a mistake!”  Daniel shoved him back to the ground - loose stones grinding against his shoulders as Shawn tried to push away the taller frame.

 

Daniel clamped hands on his wrists and wedged a knee in his gut - the weight putting pressure on Shawn’s lungs.  

 

Hands squeezing the wrists in his grip, Daniel grinned through the smeared remains of lipstick.

 

“You weren’t supposed to live.”

 

Lunging forward, he snapped his teeth into Shawn’s throat.  

 

 


	34. Leave Some Room for Dessert

It was about a month after the separation (not divorce, yet, though the word had been floated between mom and dad for several weeks leading up to them living apart).  Dad had always been a casual cook - a requirement with mom needing to be gone so often on business trips.  Maybe it was an attempt to make things nice with a son who’d already stopped talking to him weeks before.  Maybe it was just boredom and the desire to eat something besides fried fish or canned SpaghettiOs.  Whatever the impulse, dad had decided to invest his hard earned cash in a rack of brisket and a twelve pack of Coke.  Way before internet and Bobby Flay, dad had found a “tried and true” recipe in the back of Good Housekeeping (mom’s subscription, he’d insisted.)  Four hours in the oven, later, Shawn and Gus had been bellowed in from the treehouse to eat.  It had been a disaster.  Whether from reading the instructions wrong or because of their ancient oven, the meat had been reduced to a stringy mess of grease and charred bits.  Chewy rather than tender, they’d muscled their way through about three bites before dad had grabbed their forks away and announced a trip to Kentucky Fried Chicken.  

It was that texture that came back the most, now.  Salty, greasy, and tough - a flavor that sat on the tongue and stuck in the teeth.  And, over it all, the proud encouragement in foreign words.   

It was there, now, as rabid pain tore at his throat.  Shawn had seconds to buck his hips when Daniel lunged - teeth crushing vocal chords; cutting into the thin stream of air.  Molars ground against his neck and his jaw cracked wide, silent, as Daniel twisted his jaw; tearing deep.  

His legs the only limbs sorta free, Shawn twisted until he could get his left one loose - twisting again, charged up with panic, to wedge his knee into Daniel’s side.  Blotches of spotty dark were humming against the edges of his eyes as the teeth started to crush down on his windpipe.  Open gape of his own teeth, wrists tugged at the grip grinding the bones together.  

Dammit, he was not going to die like this!

**  
  
**

~-~-~

“Son of a bitch!”

Juliet was shouting in the background and two officers had corralled Guster; dragging him out of the circle of mayhem that had just fucking exploded!  

Weapon lifted, then lowered, time and again.  Instinct straining against common sense.  Impossible shot even if Spencer wasn’t in the line of fire from every angle.  Too distant - too dark.  No matter what he did, Spencer was going to die.  

“Shit!”  

O’Hara was back - her own weapon drawn and pointing at the ground.  “A taser…”

“Already thought of it; won’t reach!”  Shit, shit!  Oh!

Eyes popped wide; but no time to talk it out other than to stare at his partner even as he was churning his feet backwards - back towards the car.

“Carlton, what...?”

He ran - bypassing Guster who was locked in a frantic phone call - easy money who was on the other end of the line.  Dammit!

Forgotten weapon shoved in its holster he tore his pocket ripping his keys free - nearly gouging the paint from the truck when the key skipped across the lock on his first attempt.  Finally wrestling his way inside, he shoved aside two vests to fumble out one of several square boxes stored beneath.

Emptying his weapon of its current load, he reloaded in under thirty seconds, despite the tremble in his fingers.  Slapping the magazine back into place, he grabbed the half emptied box and scrambled back towards the garden.

Guster joined him as he darted through the back gate and Lassiter spared no time to shout him back.  Good thing, too, as Guster’s hand snatching his belt no doubt stopped him joining the other two at the bottom of the well when his smooth soles skidded on the dry grass.

One handed toss of the box, still in hand, towards his partner.  Juliet’s miracle catch of his unwarned lob a barely heeded detail as he barked for light - Guster bleating confusion whilst O’Hara, dropping the box in the grass, stowed her weapon in favor of shining a beam down on the too still form of the SBPD’s self-proclaimed soothsayer.  The mask of a white face beamed pale with the light that cut down through the dark hole.  Form bent over him - narrow back filling the line of sight that tunneled to a single point.

Lassiter fired.

~-~-~

 

**  
  
**

Cold pebbled on exposed skin.  Sweet, hot metal stink flushed through his nose.  Something with a million legs pattered across his cheek and Shawn jerked; hands frozen and unable to swat it away.  

He was coming back.

Grit peppered air sucked over his tongue and triggered a world of choking coughs - crippled by enormous weight crushing his chest.   Circles of black and bright flickered through his immediate eye line.  Better than solid black but only by a knuckle.  What the hell was on top of him?

Teeth hard on his throat shuddered horrors of memory through his frame and he bucked his hips - twisting dead limbs free from the slack hold that had pinned his wrists to the ground.  No space for a clean escape, though he managed well in spite of the restrictions.  

Tommy Lee was hammering out a sick beat between his ears - thumping thudding migraine in progress had him gripping his badly mangled mane.  

Daniel took up most of the floor space, again, arms and legs reaching wall to wall.  Face turned to the side, there was enough light to see the wet red smeared on his cheeks and jaw.  Shawn cupped a hand around the ripped flesh of his throat but couldn’t bring himself to touch the raw hurt.  

“Spencer!”     

White rip of pain, trying to lift his jaw towards the light.  Shawn hunched his shoulders and backed against the crumbling wall.  Dirt shifted down the back of his shirt and he wrinkled his nose at the itch.

“Present!”  He tipped the fingers of one hand to prove he’d heard in case his voice hadn’t carried.  Down on the floor, near his toe tips, Daniel started to groan.  Shawn squashed tighter to the wall and did an astounding job holding back the scream sitting on his tongue.  “Uh, Lassie!”

Pebbles and random detritus flaked over the edge of the well.  “Here, catch!”

Shawn DID scream when something thunked into the dirt and inch from his sneaker.  Pain opened up across his throat when he jerked his eyes upward; Lassiter’s face staring down at him in a pinched grouch.  

“I told you to catch them!”

Gus shoved up next to the scowling detective; one shoulder knocking the man several inches left in his bum’s rush to the lip of the well.

“Shawn! Are you okay!?”  Lower lip out and, Shawn was sure, probably trembling at the sight of the bloodied and bedraggled kitten stuck in a pit with the wild hyena that had just tried to eat it.

No lie, though, Shawn felt his own lip trembling at his circumstances.  “I’m okay…” Though less of a yell and more a whispered query.  And then he thought to poke his foot towards the thing Lassiter had lobbed his way.

Handcuffs.  Of course.  Through a loaded Glock would have been a tad more welcome and reassuring.  Wow, and blood loss combined with a light case of shock made for fun shapes floating across his sight.

“Spencer!”

Wall, thankfully close, as legs took him a wobbily backwards stumble against the dirt crusted brick.  “Huh?”

Daniel groaned.  The one foot, still sporting a pointed heel, dragged a groove through the brownish gray dirt.  

No level of panic was enough to supercede the stiff pain through joints and muscles - leaving Shawn to inch his way down the wall until he was close enough to lean… lean more… stretch his fingers with one arm extending well past the prescribed user’s guide limits…

Index finger hooked around a ring of metal and pulled the handcuffs into a fist.  Rather than forcing limbs into a reverse journey, Shawn stayed on hands and knees to crawl the short distance to Daniel’s side.  Still in a mushy state of barely waking, the other man didn’t fight as Shawn snapped the cuffs in place - pulling wrists to the small of his back.

Task done, he pushed his sneakers against the ground until he, once more, was resting against the wall.  Eyes locked on the waking form across from him, Shawn pressed a tooth into his tongue - failing effort to keep his eyelids from sinking shut was adrenaline began to drip from his limbs.

Until, seconds or days later, a hand snatched around his bicep.

“Shawn?”

 

~-~-~

 

 

A handful of flashlights were the only light providing any sort of view to the bottom of the well.  Lassiter and Juliet, while nearby, had moved to the far side of the hole and were discussing the rescue attempt with a couple of the other officers.

One hand wrapped around his flashlight; holding it firm to shine down on the top of Shawn’s bowed head.  The other hand rubbed palm sweat on his thigh.  Vibration beneath his fingers stopped the anxious scrub and Gus pulled out his phone - eyes still fixed on his friend while his thumb swiped the screen.

“Hello?”

“Gus?  I’m five minutes out.  How’s Shawn?”  Fired like bullets, Henry Spencer’s question was a demand to stand and salute and was enough to pull Gus from his terrified fugue.  His tongue poked from his mouth as he made a circuit around the mouth of the well - both to attempt a better angle on Shawn’s face as well as to get some subtle eavesdropping on the group of officers.

“He seems okay…”  He seemed terrified, actually, but Henry didn’t need to know that.

“Bull.  What’s going on, Gus!”

“Uh…” Behind him, talk had switched to action as an officer broke from the group and ran to one of the squad cars.  Meanwhile, Lassiter had begun to strip off his jacket.

“Mr. Spencer, I’ll call you back.”

“Gus, hold o-!”  Call disconnected and phone slipping into his slacks, Gus could feel it immediately begin vibrating against his hip.  Parental wrath poured from the tiny device, but Gus was willing to face whatever hell Henry could bring.  With luck, Shawn would be taped back together, by that point, to act as a feeble human shield.  No, Henry wasn’t one to soften at the sight of blood, but Shawn could pull some next level pathetic, these days, that even his thick-skinned Pop was helpless against.

Glad he’d left the jacket home, that day, Gus pushed himself into the thicket of cops just as Lassiter was looping a heavy rope around his waist.

“What are you doing?”  

Not the small talk, chit chat type, Lassiter snugged the first wrap of rope before working his legs through the next two loops; another officer assisting with the bizarre little bondage scene.

“What does it look like, Guster?  I’m going fucking Spencer fishing.  Here,” he turned to the officer behind him and passed over his Glock, spare sidearm, and taser.

No need to ask about that one - the close quarters and subsequent rescue of both well occupants would make it dangerous to put a weapon in reach of their perp.  

Moments later, an officer pulled into the yard with one of the cruisers; backing it to within about eight feet from the hole.  Another officer tied off the end of the rope to the ball hitch while Lassiter approached the lip of the well.

“You’re gonna get Shawn out first, right?”

Lassiter tugged the rope; testing the strength of the knot.  “We need to secure Tootsie, first.”  Earth crumbled as he nudged one foot across the edge of the pit.

“Uh, uh!  No way!  Psychopath can wait!  Shawn needs to come out of there right now!”  

Gus started forward only for Lassiter to round on him - finger jabbing at his chest.  “This isn’t debatable, Guster!  And we don’t have time to argue it!  So just back the hell off and let me do my damn job!”  Turning back to the hole, Lassiter held the rope in both hands - the rest of the length taken by five other officers to support his descent.

Hands in fists, Gus bit his teeth around further protest.  “Fine!”  Crossing to the pile of extra supplies, he dug out a handful of carabiners and a second length of rope - immediately wrapping it around his waist.

 

Half his body in the well, Lassiter glared across the grass at his activity.  “What the- Guster, what the hell are you doing!?”

An afternoon of indoor climbing with Ruby, that spring, may not have made a daredevil cliff climber out of him, but it had taught him how to tie an excellent knot.  Creating a harness with more loops of rope, Gus glared back at the detective and tried to breath his way past the attack of trembles in his throat.

“You can go get the bad guy,” he cinched the final rope tight, “I’m getting my friend!”

**  
  
**

~-~-~

“Shawn?”

The cold rush of bubbles through his blood wasn’t enough to generate a limb flailing response; though Shawn felt his mind reach for such an outcome.  Too much drain to manage more than a tug of air across his lips.  It tasted like lavender.

“...Gus?”  Cocoa eyes close his his when he shoved up his lids.  Patented worry wibble across those adorable features - so precious he almost pinches those smooth cheeks.

“Ow!  Dude!”

Oh… executable function was apparently not so functional as he watched his hand get smacked away from slightly reddened skin.

“Hey buddy.”  Shadow blocked his little stream of sunlight and Shawn squinted upward.  “Dude, Lassie’s an angel?  No wings, though.  How’s he flying?”

“Same way we are, Shawn.”  

Something pressed against his throat and Shawn gasped and reared back from the burn it made.  Gus followed the movement, though, keeping his hand against Shawn’s throat.

Burton’s baby features slipping into the green hues - needed to adjust the picture.  Maybe change the channel completely; Shawn was just not into dramas anymore.  Cartoon Network or maybe Comedy Central more his speed.

“Guster!  You guys ready!?”  Angel Lassie again.  Sounded mad.  He always sounded mad.

“Almost!”  Gus had moved his hands to Shawn’s waist - wrapping something tight around his middle and, disturbingly close if he were more awake and a lot more sassy, between his legs.

“Saf-ey word is knismolagnia.”  He snickered while Gus wrinkled his nose.

“Wow, okay, we need to go.”

Shawn nodded.  He was ready to go.

Gus was kneeling.  One hand rested on Shawn’s knee; a firm and solid pressure.  “Hey.  You’re gonna be okay; alright?”

After a moment, Shawn smiled.  “Yeah.”  He lifted his face as well as he could - one hand cupped around his throat.  Bright sun made the opening above look like a gold coin.

“I wanna go home, Gus.”  Eyes moving back down - settling on that calm face.

“You got it, buddy.”  Then, reaching up, Gus gave two tugs on one of the ropes dangling next to him.

 **  
**And then, Shawn was flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, tremendous thank you's to all my wonderful readers, reviewers, and helpers!! I can barely believe there is only one chapter left!! What a saga!!


	35. No More For Me, Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is my thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story, every new reader who has found this writing journey, and all of the amazing people who've given me inspiration, encouragement, prodded, cajoled, threatened, screamed, and expressed both delight and horror at this creation. My DEEPEST gratitude to all of you! This story exists because of you all!
> 
> And now, on to this final chapter. There will be an epilogue to follow, soon.

Henry had arrived to the mansion just in time to turn his truck around and, once again, find himself chasing an ambulance, bearing his son, back to the hospital.

No chance of pursuing the gurney, too, he was waylaid by nursing staff who demanded that someone sign for the special delivery.  As though they couldn’t have the info on file and within easy access, given the spinning door treatment Shawn had given Urgent Care for most of his life.  More, since opening Psych, and exponentially more within the last half a year.  

McNab had been assigned to remain at his side and cast a dark shadow over the forms that Henry gave a fast glance and scrawl.  Annoying as it was to be haunted by the overy affable mastiff in blue, Henry could understand the caution; considering his son was, again, sharing a hospital stay with his attacker.  Stalking the waiting room, the oversized young officer hounding his movements, Henry had been hard put to keep a lid on the lava flow - justification notwithstanding - he just really didn’t need to get kicked to the street before hearing if his son had pulled the trifecta for unlikely survival.  Trouble magnet and irresponsible a lethal mix of traits, yet just enough of a lucky streak thrown into the batter to squeak the boy through in situations that would have easily killed anyone else.  Henry’s own training methods surely the tipping point for shoving the odds in Shawn’s favor; God, that kid.

Wishing for a hat to twist in his hands, Henry settled for an already shredded copy of Wired.  Gus, feet dragging the tile and still smudged in a head to toe layer of filth, finally slumped himself into one of the soft chairs near the bright fish tank bisecting the space.  He’d gone to take a phone call nearly half an hour ago but Henry had little interest in rejoining the young man, now that he’d returned.

“Hear anything yet?”  Only a few other people in the silent room; Gus’s voice carried easily in spite of his soft tone.

Henry shook his head.  “No.”

Not even enough time to dwell on the silence, though, before a young nurse pushed through the door across from the seating area.  “Shawn Spencer?”

Henry turned and Gus stood.

The nurse smiled.  “Follow me.”

  


~-~-~

 

 

The sky was all shades of reds and blues over the ocean.  Sailor take warning colors and choppy waves meant the smaller pleasure boats would be staying in the harbor.  Already it was getting chilly outside and not only because of the season.  Was Christmas just a month and a half away?  Any other year he’d have been bicep deep in gift planning.  Any other year he’d have been giddy at the excitement of the coming holidays.  

Shawn tugged his collar; debating the top button.  The gnarly little scar wasn’t quite covered by his shirt.  Not as large as he’d thought it would be; though five months of healing and a tight row of stitches had minimized the carnage.  While it was one of the smallest of his scars; it was the only one that most people saw.  Unless he planned to sport a turtle neck, every day, he’d have to put up with the eyes trying to land everywhere but on his throat while, simultaneously, staring at it.  Maybe he should give ascots another go?

Dad had dropped him off at the Psych office a few hours ago.  Lots of questions about returning - whether or not Gus should keep footing the rent (though Shawn was certain that others had stepped in to slip their finances a significant boost - Gus’s income may have earned a step up now that he was spending most of his day at his paying job but even he couldn’t swing the capital to support a second job that only drained resources).  Shawn still had no answer to that.  He needed the distraction of work yet was nauseated by the thought.  

He kicked his desk chair back and forth and focused more on the squeak of the plastic casters than the mess of PTSD prodding at the back of his head.  It was really hard, daily, to keep up the chattery version of himself that everyone liked or loathed but certainly preferred to Silent Bob.  Which would make Gus, Jay, which was way too weird...  

A manila envelope rested under his fingers.  His other hand kneaded the dulling pain of his shoulder.  The bone had knitted months ago but sometimes it still thumped in a waning ache.  

Dropping both hands to the yellow packet, he slipped a thumb beneath the flap and pulled out the stack of photos.  Flipped through countless times and memorized, yet there was still the need for fresh examination.  As though there were a way to solve a riddle with the hands on approach.  As though there were actually a riddle left to solve.  Something beyond, merely, why?

Faint sound of gravel crunching under tires - louder than the engine itself as a car pulled into the lot.  A door opened and shut, followed by soft soles on the sidewalk.  Not the hard impact of dress shoes - Gus was taking a free day from Central Coast.  A few seconds of clatter at the side door and a waft of lavender preceded his friend.

“They were out of Nacho flavor so I got you Harvest Cheddar.”  A fun sized bag of chips landed amidst the photos.  Shawn pulled one of the images out from under the bag while Gus set a water beaded cup of soda next to the blotter.

This photo was one that always triggered a tightening of his throat - a pun he recognized but didn’t find the least bit funny.  A dark circle in the earth leading into deep black.  The next photo was taken from inside and lit with a stark flash.  Blood looked black in the sharp exposure - dried and hours old at the time the picture was taken.  Not documenting the recent crime, however, but an old one.

A handful of tiny bones had been found at the bottom of the well after Shawn and Daniel had been pulled from the depths.  Slender and delicate from time spent buried in the damp sand and decay.  DNA was degraded but there were enough tattered scraps of a once frilly dress to hazard a logic leap at identification.  Framed photos around the house, showing the passing of years, also told a story that fit together a tangled history.  Baby pictures; a boy and girl.  Mother, dressed in silk and holding her baby daughter.  A little boy of around four - standing close but not touching.  A pale bruise beneath his eye - visible even in black and white.  In later pictures the boy and baby girl were gone.  Instead, the mother stood with an older daughter.  An older daughter with sad eyes and lanky arms and legs.

“She killed her over a busted tea cup.”  Shawn pushed copies of the photos around with one finger.  

Gus dropped a Subway sandwich on Shawn’s desk.  Shawn nudged it away with his elbow and Gus pushed it back.  They’d had this conversation before.  Gus only sighed, now.  Shawn wasn’t really looking for dialogue, though.

He slid one picture towards Gus before peeling back the paper on his sandwich.  Chicken breast with bacon and ranch.  He licked dressing from one finger before pointing at the photo his buddy held.

“How many dishes did I break growing up?”

Gus shrugged.  “Dunno.  We strictly talking about the ones we skipped like rocks across the surf?  Or you including ones like my Mom’s Easter platter you threw into the wall when you insisted on wearing roller skates to, and I quote, “deliver cookies to the table like Maverick coming in for a landing on an aircraft carrier”.  Either way, you buried most of them in your mom’s garden.”   

That got a chuckle and Shawn took a sip of soda.  Not that he’d ever avoided punishment for long - hell no.  But his mother had instituted a ‘no spanking’ clause at birth.  Granted, he’d often felt a bare assed swat would have been preferable to the weekends he’d lost repainting the garage.  So much for his brief life as a muralist.

The tragic death of Elizabeth Vernon had come out in hiccupped stutters eerie delusion during a one on one with a police psychologist.  Lassiter, miffed at being on the wrong side of the two way glass, had shared the highlights while Shawn was still recuperating in the hospital.  Shawn had, actually, see a lot more of Lassiter than he’d even seen of Juliet.  Dazed out on morphine - at the time he hadn’t thought much of it.  Backtracking in memory, however, built a question of Lassie’s new and chummier ways.  Either the dude was working some sort of hospital stake out or he was angling for a man date.  Whatever the weird ways, Shawn had no illusions that the old Lassiter would grump his way back to the surface soon enough.

“She didn’t deserve that,” Shawn scratched the back of his hand, “neither of them did.”

Silence gave way to poking at his neglected sub.  The texture of chicken wasn’t so bad, but Shawn plucked out the chewy bacon - making a small stack of it on his napkin for Gus to steal.

Gus, still hovering at the desk, shook his head after Shawn dropped into brooding.  “Poor kid.”  He pushed the photos back into their envelope before snatching the bacon and munching down a strip on his way back to his own desk.  

Shawn folded the wrapper back over his sandwich - swallowing his single bite.  It made no difference, really, what he concluded.  Daniel was in a high security treatment facility and would probably never see the inside of a courtroom.  Shawn was well acquainted with that facility, and its security, given another inmate that resided there.  Not exactly rotting in hell given that they served chicken and mashed potatoes every Wednesday.     

Marinara and spice drifted across the room as Gus bit into his meatball sub.  Shawn rubbed his lip and stood; crossing to the picture window.  It was starting to cloud up and the few people on the beach were packing up their towels and umbrellas.  

It had been sunny the day Lassie had taken him fishing.  

He remembered talking about fish.  

Cold pebbled across his forehead while a too familiar swell pushed up his throat.  Closing his eyes didn’t help but rubbing a thumb across his wrist bought him time to refocus and breathe.  

It was getting colder… dark.  Pitch black and dripping dark - “Yzha” a soft grunt and the oily smell of cooked meat - stringy and moist as it pushed past his lips…

Battering ram of knuckles hitting the pane shook the window and shocked out a gasp.

“You okay?  I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten meatball, I wasn’t thinking…”

“Gus,” A gulp through the shake and a few more breaths while nerves jumped through his limbs.  “Dude, it’s cool.  It wasn’t your meatballs, man.”

Concern shifted to a wrinkled nose and jerking chin.  “C’mon son.”  Then Gus pressed his hip against his desk and tapped fingers at his sides.  “You wanna talk about it?”

A shrug back as Shawn pulled the shade; letting it creep down until the last of the view was blocked behind venetian.  His tongue dragged across his lips a few times while his fingers tugged the braided cord.

Another breath in and out before he lifted one shoulder.  “Nah, it’s just…”  A side eye towards his friend spotted a shiny gleam of welling moisture and the threatening red warming the tip of Gus’s nose.

Wiping both hands down his face, Shawn felt a shudder travel from his shoulders to his feet.  Plenty of light in the office but he could still feel the damp black seeping up from behind - the shattering cold stone under his toes.  Metal clamped around ankles and stumbling his every limping step.

…

...

“...okay, you’re okay, you’re okay…”  

Shawn reached a hand sideways until it gripped around the basketball net hovering over the trash can.  Both Gus and his dad had learned not to touch him while he was “away”.  There was enough on his pla… enough to deal with without adding the guilt for inflicting a black eye.

But Gus talking was good.  It, too, gave him something solid to hold onto.

He heard the irregular thudding of rain on the window as he came back; and then the rolling rumbler of casters as Gus slid a desk chair within reach.  Or was it rolling thunder?  Either way, there was a chair near his left hand and he let his legs drop him to the cushy seat.  Steps moved Gus around the room while Shawn scrubbed his forehead.  

“Dude, can you get the…” he snapped his fingers, “thing?”

“Here.”  

Shawn lifted his head long enough to grab the ice pack Gus had lobbed his way.  Draping it across the back of his neck, he held the ends in both hands and leaned forward so his elbows could press down against his knees.  

A monotone warble took Gus back across the floor; collecting the phone through the second ring.

“You have reached Psych; Burton Guster speak- oh, hey, Mr. Spencer.”

A little groan rumbled through Shawn’s chest.  He still hadn’t decided if he wanted to go over for dinner or not.  Spent most of his time either with his dad or Gus as it was and he had plants that needed attention too.  Gus kept insisting that they were pathogens but, dammit, they were green and growing and didn’t even require water and just because they were growing on leftover mac and cheese in no way meant they didn’t deserve a chance to flourish.

“Well… I guess.  I’ll ask him.  Hey, Shawn?  Your dad wants to know if we can meet him in about ten minutes.”

And the cold on his neck had just been drifting him into relaxation, too.  His head tilted up to squint across the office.

“Meet him where?”

  


 ~-~-~

  


It was a longer drive than Shawn would have expected Gus to make on a work day.  

The silence of the drive was a breeding ground for suspicion.  Neither dad nor Gus were above intervention tactics and had, several times, collaborated to waylay a young Shawn in the midst of some lighthearted mischief.  Gus was always a sellout when it came to Henry Spencer’s prized cupcakes.  Granted, he’d also sellout for a Banana Flip.  

A longer drive than was warranted if this was just a coffee run.  Also too long if Henry was plotting to deliver him to any of the six psychologists within close proximity to Psych.  More than happy to have let Gus snatch the coveted shotgun position, Shawn drifted inward rather than track the scenery.  When conversation demanded his input, he found a lot of use in “hm” and “yup” to carry him through.  Though they, doubtless, knew his detached involvement was the side effect of distant thinking, it had no bearing on their regular prods.    

Their sojourn had neared the forty minute mark when his father finally turned into the lot of a one story brick building tucked back amidst trees that looked like they’d been transported from Middle Earth.

“Come on.”  Unearthing from the truck made old men of all three of them.  Dad hobbled a few feet, but recovered quickly, his body used to the mistreatment of his ancient carriage.

Shawn, though, hunched next to Gus and waited for feeling to return to his legs.  “Uuugh…”  Two hands pushing into the base of his spine did nothing for the tight knot of twisted spinal cord.  A dusty blanket had provided zero padding on the squeaky bench seat.  

“Dude, next time we take my car.”  Equally hobbled and grumpy, Gus kept his glare on old man Spencer as the guy pushed through the glass double doors of the building.

Shawn shook out the ache as he followed Gus after his father.  His rubber soles scraped across the concrete - loud when the only other sound was the shiish of tree branches.  Even his father’s house wasn’t this quiet; enough regular traffic to remind one they were in the suburbs.  Not to mention the proximity of the beach and all the noise that came with crashing waves and beachgoers.  

It wasn’t until he was at the doors that Shawn saw any signs suggesting where they were.

“K9 Care” was titled on the glass along with a logo of a dog and a stethoscope.  Weird.  Why the hell had they brought him to a vet’s office?  

Through the doors, Shawn could see his father, leaning at a plain white counter.  Already hitting on the poor receptionist, no doubt.  Deciding to roll with it and just get through whatever game was currently being played with him as the ball, Shawn breezed past Gus, who’d opened the door a full three inches before his best friend knocked shoulders on his way inside.

Just inside the lobby, he and Gus stopped dead, tilted their heads back, and sniffed.  A second after, Gus widened his eyes.  “Dude, is that snickerdoodles?”

Shawn sniffed harder.  “Yankee candle; it has to be.”

But Gus shook his head and took another step forward.  “No way, Shawn.  I can smell the ginger!”

Shawn sniffed deeper - even leaning forward for maximum inhalation.  He was man enough to admit he couldn’t tell the difference while, also, admitting that Gus had a truly superior smell sense.  All of which was proven when a guy, in a green polo, pushed through a door on the opposite end of the room.  

“Fresh batch of cookies!  Anyone want one?”

Fleeter of foot, Gus helped himself to the entire tray - bringing it back to his slower companion who used both hands in order to stuff his face and also fill his pockets with fresh baked deliciousness.

“Shawn- Guster!”  Waving off the impertinent children - a fight he’d learned he couldn’t win, Henry turned back to the pretty desk lady while the boys wolfed down their bounty.

“Wonder if they got chocolate chip?”  Shawn pondered between chewing.

A moment later, his father headed their way - snatching the last cookie before Gus could shove it between his teeth.

“You two done here?  Come on; we have an appointment.”

Another woman had entered from a side door and waved them her way.  “It’s just down the hall.  It’s so nice to see you back, Mr. Spencer!”

Shawn swallowed his last bite to clear his mouth for commentary.  “Back?  Dad?”  Speeding his steps, he pulled up level with his old man.  “Are you romancing someone I don’t know about?  A dog doctor?  Are you dating a vet?”

Henry smiled and pushed his hands in his pockets.  His refusal to talk rankled his son; a purposeful ploy Shawn knew yet had never successfully counter no matter how whiney or contrary he became.  Not… to say he wouldn’t try.

“Seriously?  Dude, if you weren’t my father… I literally have, at minimum, twenty-eight different naughty euphemisms at my disposal.  Luckily for you, and poor Gus of the innocent ears, I have a certain level of professionalism regarding people who handle wild animals.”

Gus snuffed from Shawn’s other side.  “Like your dad?”   

Shawn gasped - a smooth blend of horrified disgust and impressed delight - though he planned retribution for the windfall of unwanted mental images of Henry in a loincloth.

Dad, for his part, was flushing a dark red across the back of his neck so at least they were even on the embarrassment front.

One, final corner, and their guide pushed open the door to a largeish room.  Bigger than a hospital waiting room but it still carried that vibe.  Shawn hunched his shoulders and pressed into the wall near one of the cushy chairs.

A shorter wait than a doctor’s office, though, as only a few minutes later the door pushed open.  The woman who entered smiled as soon as she took in the group.

“Well, hello!  How are you all doing today?”  Bright, chirpy - glasses were a little cliche’.

Henry was the first to straighten - followed by Gus with all his “signature on the back of the card smooth lavender head nose swipe damn you fine” hand out for a sniff and kiss sauvery.

 

Shawn folded his arms.

Doctor Perky tilted her head towards him, very canine, and held out a hand with chipped pink nails.  “You must be Shawn...”

“So the legends say.”  He could keep up appearances - when he chose.  He could even shake hands.  Calloused, under the pink nails.  And even without a Super Sniffer, he could pick up the sharp hit of hand sanitizer.  

“Leona Borchell,” she flicked the simple tag on her shirt, “this means I’m in charge.”  Her chuckle flickered a smile back as Shawn leaned into his corner again.  

Clapping her hands together, Leona took a few steps towards the door.  “If you guys don’t mind following me, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  Not much chance for rebellion as she pushed back out into the hallway.

Dragging last in line, Shawn dug his fingers through  his pockets while his eyes traveled over the ‘feel good’ posters along the walls.  More pastel than he was generally comfortable with.

“Let me guess; some guy with a ‘can do’ attitude and more muscle than Lou Ferrigno?  Gonna bounce a medicine ball off my left pec and talk about seeing the chrome lining on every cloud?”

“I think you mean silver lining.”  Gus, dropping back to keep pace, held the next door as Shawn trudged through.

“Dude, I’m vulnerable!  You really wanna nitpick the exact alloy on a syllabus?”

“Okay, first of all, it’s cumulous.  And secondly, by itself, silver isn’t an alloy…”

“Guster.”  Rare that dad would step in to save Shawn from ‘Language Studies with Professor Burton’.  His frown must be off the scale.  As it was, Gus clammed up after a stuttered halt.

Leona, leading them to a large blue door, giggled back towards their very important conversation.  “Back to your question, Shawn?  He’s not exactly Ferrigno.  But he isn’t a lightweight either.”  She pushed open the door; standing to the side to let them through ahead of her.  “But try to go easy on him, okay?  He’s a little new to this, himself, and will need a soft touch.”

Shawn spit air through his lips.  Like hell.  His dad could attest that ‘going soft’ was never an opt...  “Hooooly crap!  He’s a bear!”

Wicked witch at the door burst out with a full body cackle.  This was it - they’d set him up to be mauled!

Wiping tears, Leona walked past the group and knelt next to the kennel housing something large, black, and… panting?

“Shawn, I’d like to introduce my good friend, Latte Mocha.”

He tipped his head at the... dog?  “Hey, dude.”  Never leery of animals, Shawn still edged up to the grate with the awareness of that dopey smile going feral and snappy.  His fingers pushed close to the crisscrossed wires; muscles going tight when Latte’s mouth snapped shut - neck stretching towards bite sized flesh.  He sniffed fingertips.  And then he gave two quick licks before dropping his jaws wide… and smiling.

Shawn grinned back and eyebrows going high.  “Look at you!  You’re a good boy, aren’t you!  Yeah; a big fluffy man!”  Lost in baby talk, he gave little attention to the others stepping back out of the room as the kennel door was opened and seventy-five pounds of fluff bounded out into the room.

   

Both arms caught the joyful canine as it rolled against his chest - giant head heaving under his armpit and, in a flurry of whines, knocking him flat to the floor.

“Oh my God!  Latte, settle!  Hey, settle!”  A last, face washing lick, and the fur bomb finally heard Leona and backed off of Shawn’s chest - one giant paw stomping breathing-takingly close to vital bits that were quickly cupped.

“Shawn, I am so sorry!  Like I say, he’s a little new to this!”

Tears ran down Shawn’s face - arms shaking as they wrapped around his chest.  And then, in a bellow of air, he shook with gut aching laughter - unable to move from the heap that had become of his body.  Not even when the far door slammed back open and the panicked return of his caretakers become grumbled relief from his father and a snort and arm punch from his best friend.

Eventually taking pity on his flattened pal, Gus slipped an arm under his shoulders and helped lean Shawn up against the outer mesh of Latte’s kennel.  Nearby; heeled beside Leona, the grinning dog was locked on Shawn’s face.

Shaking his head, Shawn nudged Gus in the lower ribs.  “What - is this a step up from bunny therapy?  Mauling by a bear dog?  I mean, don’t get me wrong - that was wild, man!  You should totally try it!  It was like the Halfpipe at Six Flags!”

“Not on your damn life!”  Gus shot back - keeping watch on the mammoth wagger resting several feet away.

Henry, standing between everyone, had his hands jammed in his pockets.  Shawn knew that shifty look.  The joy explosion started to ebb back down below the water mark in his chest.

“What?  Dad?  What?”  Pushing both against Gus and the kennel, he got his stiff and suddenly throbbing limbs to lift him from the floor.  “Wait, what kinda plan are you and Gus cooking?  Cause, lemme tell you, it smells a bit like week old salmon.”

Gus, also standing, now, crossed his arms and leaned next to Shawn.  “It was your dad’s idea.”

“Gus!”  Head tipping and eyes squinted, Henry drove a look between Gus’s eyes that was usually reserved solely for his offspring.  And then he huffed and rolled his laser sights.  “Okay, yes, fine, it was… mostly my idea.  Well, mine… and your mother’s.”

“Mom!?  You’ve been plotting with mom, now, too?  What, is this another therapy?  Dad, I went to those for a whole…”  He counted out on his fingers, “four months!”

“Try five weeks, pal.”

“Yeah, and?  It wasn’t like they have a specialist on call for cann…” his face twisted and a hand lifted to brush across his lips.  A fresh burn of wet skimmed his eyes and he pushed his palms against them until he could swipe it away.  He sniffed, and let his hands drop again.

And the fingers of his right hand brushed against fur.

Latte was sitting beside him - his body leaning into Shawn’s leg.  He could feel the warmth of the dog’s body seeping through his jeans.  His fingers traced across the crown of Latte’s head - stroking around his ears and scratching the base.  Rolling his head under the caress, Latte groaned and pushed against the hand.

Having stood a few minutes earlier, Leona nodded towards the two of them.  “Your parents mean well, Shawn.  Henry has been in contact with me for close to six months, now.”

Shawn blinked - staring at his father.  Six months?

His old man looked back - neither of them speaking.

Walking to the opposite side of the kennel, Leona pulled a stack of papers from the clipboard that had been hanging there.

“Latte is just a few weeks out from being a certified Service dog.  He has shown a remarkable empathy towards people suffering from PTSD and other trauma.  And, you should know, that I was the one to reach out to your father, first.”

Another shared glance with his dad; Henry’s lips were pressed tight.

Fingers smoothed across the papers in her hand.  Leona shrugged - her eyes wide and dark.  “Your story has been in the papers and, well, it was horrifying how you were treated even outside of the torment you’d suffered.  And, while we normally place animals with those who come to us - there was something about your story that wouldn’t leave me.”  She nodded towards the large dog.  

“I think you two need one another.”

Shawn was still digging his fingers into the heavy fur at the base of Latte’s ears.  In heaven, the dog’s eyes were squeezed shut and his tongue was a long roll of pink hanging from the side of his jaws.

Okay, so dad had a point about the therapy sessions.  And it wasn’t as though there hadn’t been some doors cracked open, a little.  And, a few times, it had actually been nice to talk about some things to someone other than Dad or Gus or even Lassie.  Someone who wouldn’t have to rethink everything they knew or thought about him.

But still…

But, still, he had stopped going.  Because he was right, too.  No matter how many sessions he went to, he’d never felt that any amount of counselling covered a guy coming back from having… having… eaten… a guy… a kid… he’d being hired to save.  Like, how was he supposed to shrink that one?

Latte’s broad nose shoved into his hand and his tongue pushed against his palm.  Shawn could feel the rumble of a deep whine against his fingers.  He brushed his thumb across the top of the dog’s muzzle while his other hand swiped the slide of wet from his cheek.  

He hadn’t laughed that hard in nearly a year; when those giant, dinner plate paws, had mashed him into the floor.  God, that had felt damn good.

Sniffing again, Shawn licked his lips.

 **  
** “So what do I have to do?”


	36. A Last Little Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was a journey and it has been a delight to take it with you! And I'm not even sad to see it end. I feel I've brought it to the place it needed to be. That feeling is the best one that I could possibly have! I hope it's the emotion that you'll feel as well!
> 
> Please, with my most humble gratitude, enjoy this final mile with me.
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________
> 
> Warning: the snippet after the end is a true story. It contains mentions of animal death and it made me cry to write it. But it was important for me as it pertains to a certain character in the story.
> 
> __________________________________________________________________

**_Epilogue_ **

  


 

 

 

 

“Dude, quit sharing your ice cream with the dog.”

****  


“He likes it.”  Shawn spooned another lump of melting vanilla towards Latte, who sloppily lapped the spoon, Shawn’s hand, and the softened clump that gooped from the utensil and dribbled down Shawn’s knee.  Clean up duty complete, the dog sat back again - bolt upright and ears at maximum perk.  Other than gleaming brown eyes, the only movement was a lightning fast lick of his tongue across his black snout.  Beady canine attention stayed fixed on chilly sweetness as Shawn kicked himself back and forth in his chair - soft squeak with every pivot of casters across the hardwood.

****  


Gus wrinkled his nose as Shawn held out the bowl and let the bear faced beast polish off the last few bites of frozen dessert.  Six months of hard work had changed the animal from a happy but somewhat exuberant pup into a well trained and intelligent service animal.  Sadly, the same couldn’t be said for its handler; Gus shuddered as a string of drool sagged from the dog’s jowl - swinging with every movement of its head, but never falling free.  That same drool had been found on the floor, chairs, the handle of the refrigerator, and the sleeve of Gus’ jacket.  Shawn always shrugged it off and asserted that their dog was a giver.  “Their” dog.  Though, Gus had been co-conspirator in acquiring the the thing so he didn’t have a lot of ground to stand on to push back on that declaration of ownership.  And Shawn, certainly, had been part of his responsibility since childhood - his and Henry’s.  Well if the dog was part his, it was part Henry’s too - so maybe old man Spencer could grab a rag and start mopping next time one of those gluey strings spattered across the plasma.

****  


Still, for the first time in well over a year, Shawn seemed truly happy.  For that, Gus could allow himself to share space with the creature - and had even patted the thing a few times.  

****  


A double rap on the door had the dog at alert - ears up and head swiveled.  However, he didn’t bark.  When Gus headed towards the door, Latte remained at Shawn’s side.

****  


A peek through the window spotted a delivery person; a young woman in a FEDEX cap.  She smiled as the door opened; a large envelope in hand.  “Are you…” she squinted and looked down at the address again, “Dandy Brentworth Gillingham?”

****  


“Call me Gus.”  He grinned back - hoping his cheek wasn’t twitching.

****  


Somewhere behind him, with a thud and wild scrabble of claws that no doubt was tearing hell into the floors, rapidly thundered towards him.  FEDEX girl’s smile wobbled towards slight alarm as a massive fur head shoved beneath Gus’s arm - immediately followed by an equally wild haired fellow making ‘gimme’ hands towards the slim package.

 

“Is that it?  Is it here!?  Dude!”  Envelope snatched, Shawn and canine scrambled back inside while Gus remained at the door; grin going on painful.  

****  


“Uh… thank you for stopping by.”

****  


FEDEX tipped her head.  “That is what they pay us for.  Enjoy your… uh… yeah.”

****  


Eeling back inside, Gus smacked his head against the doorframe and pondered how many points of cool he’d lost in that little interaction.  Behind him, the tear of paper and huffing whines were intercut with tapping feet tattooing the floor. Whether Shawn, his dog, or both, it was hard to say.

****  


“Gus!”  Not the voice of panic but, rather, the demanding excited bellow that often rang out upon the discovery of a new taco place.  Well who was Gus kidding?  Tacos triggered a fervent thrill that made his own voice pitched and uncultured.

****  


The whining hit a new register by the time Gus returned to the inner office - Shawn bouncing in place with the treasured paperwork gripped in his fingers.  At his feet, Latte danced and trembled and wagged his giant fan of a tail so hard it sent papers scattering from Gus’s inbox.

****  


“Gus, Gus, Gus… are you ready for this?  Final bets, man - lay em on me!”

****  


About damn time that paperwork arrived.  Shawn had been nearly unhinged with anxiety and excitement by turns for the last month.  Who knew it would take that long?

****  


Latte whipped his massive skull left and right - taking in the faces of the two men on either side of him.  Gus scratched his cheek and gave the beast a last one over.  Yeah, he was sure.

****  


“Tibetan Mastiff, Catahoula Leopard Dog, aaaand…” he squinted, “Peruvian Inca Orchid.”

****  


Shawn’s fingers jerked to a stop in their unfolding.  “Dude, part flower?  Seriously?”

****  


Gus frowned back.  “It’s not a flower; it’s an ancient breed for pre-Incan history-”

****  


“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure it smells nice and needs to be kept out of direct sunlight.”  

****  


Tipping his head to the side, Gus pondered that.  “Well, actually…”

****  


“Okay!”  Lunging to his feet, Shawn held the papers above his head.  Latte, leaping up with his owner, lolled his fifteen foot long tongue out the side of his mouth and commenced drooling.

****  


“Augh…”  Stepping back from the imminent spatters, Gus chose not to comment in favor of letting Shawn’s excitement flood over him.  It wasn’t hard.  Shawn’s emotions had a way of seizing entire rooms.  His joy and humor overwhelmed.  His grief and fear turned everything to ice.  But, since Latte had joined their… family… the ice age seemed to be ending.

****  


“Are we ready?”  Shawn bounced on his toes.  Both Gus and Latte began bouncing too.  

****  


Sucking in a breath and holding it deep, Shawn pulled the paperwork down before his eyes.  Pupils rapidly scanned - roving across the top page.  “Okay!  First, they’d like to thank us for participating in this test…”     

****  


“Shawn-”

****  


Flipping to the second page, bounce intensifying, Shawn suddenly slapped the paper.  “Not a wolf!”  He read some more - lip curling up on one side.  “Not a Purple Poppy either.”

****  


Gus let that slide.  Mostly because he was busy snatching the paper from Shawn’s slow-ass hands.

****  


The final results were in the third paragraph in bold text.  “American Eskimo, Malamute, Great Dane, and dalmatian.”  He glanced at the boofy head - tongue still slobbering from its jaws.  “You know what this means?”

****  


Shawn flattened Latte’s face between his hands and ruffled the smooshed skull back and forth; voice going to baby talk.  “That’s him’s a big husky muffin!  Yes he is!”

****  


Gus prodded the description.  “It means he’s an amalgamation!”

****  


Shawn’s play paused - the big head still in his hands - Latte’s tail wildly swinging in a half oval arc.  “And animal what nation?”

****  


Not certain if Shawn was playing his usual dunce game or if he was legitimately confounded, Gus chose to give him the benefit of slipshod self education.

****  


“Amalgamation!  You know - it means an act, or process, of being united.  Like the blending of various dog breeds.  But it’s also a ‘portmanteau’; a word that means the blending of one or more words to create a new word! AMerican eskimo, MALamute, Great dane, dalMATIAN!  Amalgamation!”

****  


Shawn’s eyebrows rose - then lowered again as his face twisted to the side.  Taking advantage of his distracted master, Latte lunged forward and swiped his tongue across Shawn’s nose.”

****  


“Gluph!  Dude!”  Scrubbing at his face, he dropped back against his chair - Latte’s giant bear-like frame flopping between his knees.  “Okay, Gus?  Seriously… I have no response for all that.”

****  


Gus huffed.  “You could at least be impressed.”

****  


“Oh, I’m impressed!” Shawn wrapped his arms around Latte’s neck - the dog scrabbling his feet as he leaped sideways and dragged them both into a tumble across the floor.  Laughter slammed out of Shawn’s gut - tears of glee slipping past his lids as his canine went wild - rolling his head into his owner’s chest and waving his long, giraffe legs, in the air.

****  


Gus snatched his phone from the desk and quickly started recording the silliness.  Good memory or blackmail, he was cool either way.

****  


It wasn’t long before his own cackles joined his best friend.

****  


And that was the thing about Shawn.  His happiness.

****  


It filled the whole world.

****

**~ The End ~**

****

**The Story of Latte Mocha**

****  


Latte was a real dog who started life in Anchorage, Alaska.  Unlike Shawn’s new friend, the real Latte was a delightful and beautiful mix of akita and german shepherd.  Spotted black and white legs, giant fan tail, big, black head and tiny brown eyes - my nephew, at 3 years old, reacted to his first sight of this giant the same way as Shawn; “It’s a bear!”

****  


Though a gentle giant in later years, Latte wasn’t always that way.  As a “teenager” he was very dog aggressive - twice attacking my Princy Bean and, one of those times, leaving puncture marks in Princy’s neck.  Another time, he nearly mauled a small pomeranian to death.  No, he wasn’t close to perfect.  However, his owner, my beloved nephew, Jacob, never gave up on him.  He took him to dog training classes and followed the training rules to the letter.  Within a few years, he’d managed to correct all of Latte’s bad behavior.

****  


After many years, Latte’s family decided to move to Minnesota.  He found a new home far away from the oceans and mountains.  Though, for an adventuresome outside dog, he probably was just as happy to trade up to a personal lake and as much country as he could hope to explore.

****  


I’ve no doubt those last years were gloriously happy for him.

****  


As a senior dog, Latte, naturally, began to slow down.  He didn’t adventure as much - maybe due to his hearing loss - and he seemed quite happy staying at the lake house with his people.

****  


Nobody knows why, on that one fall afternoon, Latte chose to wander so far.  Maybe he was chasing down the scent of a rabbit.  Maybe he’d seen the kids playing down by the river.  No doubt they’d held his attention as he stood on that gravel bank.  Latte had so loved children.

****  


Maybe it was a mercy he never heard the train.

****  


Surely it was a mercy that he felt no pain - killed instantly - with a heart filled with happiness.

****  


Oh, but so much pain left behind when he left.  Years later, I still cry in remembering.  Though he wasn’t my dog - and though he’s even tried to kill my precious Bean - he was still so greatly loved.  And so, I have brought him back - to live again with someone who will treasure him as much as we had.

****  


Take care of Shawn, Latte.

**  
**You’re a good boy **.**  


 

 

 

 

_**"Thorns may hurt you, men desert you, sunlight turn to fog;** _   
_**but you're never friendless ever, if you have a dog."** _

_\-- Douglas Mallock_


End file.
